


How to Bang Your Weapon (in This World and the Next)

by Brokenwords, elkleggs, Hark_bananas, kocuria-visuals (kocuria), Nospheratt, profoundalpacakitten, ScrambledScript, sublimepigeon, ursa



Series: How to Bang Your Weapon 'verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Harness, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hydra Won (Marvel), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bifle, Biting, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Who is She even?, Collars, Cookies, Dom Steve Rogers, Don't Come at Us for Realism, Embedded Images, Emotional Porn, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra are dicks, Hydra is Dumb, Illustrations, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Multiverse, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, References to Torture, Round Robin, Selfcest, Sexual Roleplay, Shower Sex, Spitroasting, Steve Rogers Gets a Hug, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Sub Bucky Barnes, Sub Steve Rogers, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, a lot going on, and a nap, and blankets, coffee orders, every Steve needs a Bucky, or something, there's a lot happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29165664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenwords/pseuds/Brokenwords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkleggs/pseuds/elkleggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hark_bananas/pseuds/Hark_bananas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nospheratt/pseuds/Nospheratt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/profoundalpacakitten/pseuds/profoundalpacakitten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrambledScript/pseuds/ScrambledScript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublimepigeon/pseuds/sublimepigeon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa/pseuds/ursa
Summary: “Are the memories good?” he finally asks, though it’s a stupid question. There is no good or bad. There’s only the chair, the cryotube, a host of anonymous technicians, the Asset.“Not… not the ones I can remember. But there are others that I can see the outlines of, like wisps of smoke. Maybe they’re good. They feel good.”Hydra knows how to get the Asset to do their bidding. When they want a new Captain, a new Steven Grant Rogers from another universe to help grow Hydra's collection of supersoldiers, of course they send the Asset. But little do they know that in any universe, a Bucky will always find a Steve, and a Steve will always protect a Bucky.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers
Series: How to Bang Your Weapon 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159997
Comments: 134
Kudos: 166





	1. I Don't Even Know Your Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weaponized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weaponized/gifts).



> This story is a round robin-style collab between 4 artists and 5 authors, taking Bucky through different realities in search of a happy ending.
> 
> Happy birthday, darling Weapon, with love from TSTM! 🖤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Hark_bananas and kocuria-visuals.
> 
> CW: very mild consent issues in this chapter, see end notes for more information.

The Captain scratches at the inside of the door, the thick, tempered glass surrounded by a tight seal, nothing for his nails to get a purchase on. The air in his lungs is thick and choking, stale and starved of oxygen. Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, when one of his hands shoots up to claw at his throat, then there’s a sharp hiss, and he gasps in great lungfuls of the air that rushes in through the widening gap. It smells like chemical cleaners and ozone, like ice, like death.

When the door opens all the way, he pushes himself forward and stumbles out, falling to his knees on the bare concrete floor. No one helps him; they all know better than that, by now. He has killed too many technicians in the past, and now no one is allowed within two meters of him, not until after the chair.

He coughs and sputters, hacking up a viscous substance from somewhere deep inside his chest that burns like cold fire as it comes up. Some time later there’s the bitter taste of yellow bile, and when he thinks he can’t take any more, the sharp, almost welcome taste of coppery blood. That’s when he knows he’s done.

Time passes. The Captain pushes himself to his feet, swaying as his body tries to reset its internal gyroscope, blood pounding loudly in his ears. This is the one place where it’s acceptable to show weakness; no one will kick him while he’s shaking on the floor or shove him roughly so that he falls over into the puddle of his own vomit. They had tried it, of course, early on. But even in this pitiable state, he’d still managed to kill two technicians and break a third’s femur before he was subdued. That’s why he doesn’t bother hiding the pain, the dizziness, the weakness. No one will touch him until after the chair.

When his head stops spinning, he looks back over his shoulder, just to check. Sure enough, there’s a man in tactical gear standing next to the other cryotube, the one with a red star over the window. He has a gun pressed to the tempered glass, no more than twenty centimeters away from the face of the person who’s still frozen inside. _Bucky_ , the Captain thinks, the name echoing through the jumbled chambers of his mind. But then he turns back around again. He remembers, he always remembers when he first gets out of the tube, but he’s not sure if they know that. For some reason, it feels like a secret he needs to keep.

He takes one step toward the chair sitting in the center of the room, and then another. Steady enough on his feet, he can’t make a show of going too slow, although he tries to avoid for as long as possible submitting to the punishments of the chair. But at the same time, he also wants to get it over with. Being wiped clean rends his being in two, but it’s also a relief, like last rites. It means that he will begin again, and the pain of remembering will be put off for a while longer.

* * *

_08 August 2043, 15:45_

_Log entry # 9881.0_

_J. Wallace Y093423-C, Senior Electrorecalibration Technician_

_Subject WS2 entered the defrost phase at 09:33 and began to show vital signs at 11:21. At 11:30, the subject began the decompression phase, and after the prescribed 15-minute decompression period, the chamber was unsealed. The subject exhibited the expected reaction to the cryofreeze: vomiting, bleeding from the mouth and nostrils, dizziness and inability to walk smoothly. At 11:52, the electrorecalibration procedure began, and the usual program (982B) was run. At 11:56, when given his call sign, the subject made the appropriate response (“Ready to comply”)._

_Subject WS2 was cleaned, disinfectant was applied to the standard electrical burns across the upper right quadrant of his face, and nutrient paste and intravenous drugs were administered according to procedure. At 12:09, the defrost phase for subject WS1 began. The process ran as usual, with the subject WS2 helping to remove WS1 from the cryotube and acclimate him to the defrosted state. WS1, as is usual, needed an extra 12.5 minutes in order to be able to walk without assistance to the electrorecalibration machine. The usual recalibration program (872A) was run. Unlike last time (log entry # 9872.2; 7 June 2042), subject WS1 exhibited some small signs of recalibration failure (fear response and changes in heart rate and eye tracking when subject WS2 was near, indicating possible recognition), but the handler overseeing the procedure (S. Baer; J6424897-I) determined that these indications did not warrant a second recalibration. WS1 will be monitored for signs of further anomalous behavior._

_WS1 was cleaned and nutrient paste and intravenous drugs were administered according to procedure, and at 15:18 both subjects were escorted by S. Baer to the room that has been provided for them._

_Apart from the few anomalous readings from WS1 after the recalibration procedure, both procedures went according to plan and in line with all expectations. No further actions are necessary at this time._

_J. Wallace Y093423-C, Senior Electrorecalibration Technician_

* * *

The handler unlocks the nondescript door and nudges it open with his foot, then stands aside so that they can enter. The room on the other side of the door is plain, furnished with nothing but a bed, a squat dresser, a wooden table, and another door that he can see opens onto a small bathroom. There’s a camera in the corner of the room facing the door; no doubt there’s another one in the bathroom and bugs scattered about, as well.

“You have forty-eight hours until your mission,” the handler says. Both the Captain and the Asset swivel around to face him, the voice they are compelled to obey. “Food will be brought to you at eight-hour intervals starting four hours from now. You will not leave this room until I return to retrieve you. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” they chorus, as if they speak with one voice. The handler nods once, then turns on his heel and leaves, closing the door behind him. The electronic deadbolt clicks audibly, once-twice-thrice, and then silence descends.

The Captain looks over at the Asset, who is still standing at parade rest and staring at the door. “At ease,” he says, more to see what will happen than because he thinks he has to give the Asset permission. After all, he’s not the Asset’s handler, is he?

The Asset’s shoulders slump and his back takes on a softer curve. His damp hair hangs down in front of his face, obscuring his eyes, but the Captain can tell that he is tired. He knows that the Asset needs to sleep.

Somehow, he knows that he takes care of the Asset, but not because he’s a handler. That job belongs to another man—always a man, many faceless men, ever-changing—but the Captain’s job is something else entirely. He already knows that it’s his duty to help the Asset as he wakes from cryosleep, to lead him to the chair, to administer the nutrient paste in a way that keeps him from gagging on it. Then it must also be his job to make sure the Asset sleeps, right? He doesn’t really know how he knows it, but it’s what feels right in the moment.

So he takes the Asset by the arm, his grip firm but not painful, and turns him around, leads him to the bed at the side of the room. They are both wearing soft, thin clothes, discolored from repeated washings, and flat slippers that do nothing to keep the chill of the floor from seeping up into the soles of his feet. The Asset gravitates toward him as they cross the floor to the side of the bed, leaning close in a way that seems more like need than exhaustion.

The Captain remembers this in some way that’s not actually remembering. He feels like they have done this before, many many times, in this room, in other rooms, and very, very far away, like the echo of the reflection of a memory, a room totally different from this bland, uninspiring one. A bed that creaked, paper on the walls that peeled, a blanket that smelled like dust and their own two bodies. But as he’s trying to grasp the memory it slips away, forgotten again, leaving nothing but the impression of loss in its wake.

The Asset doesn’t lean any closer, though, doesn’t try to make more contact than the bright, cold point of light where the Captain’s arm meets the metal of his shoulder through his thin shirt.

When they reach the bed, the Captain pushes at the Asset’s arm until he sits down, and then kneels for a second while he slips his shoes off. Again, he pushes at the Asset until he moves to the other side of the bed and lies down, his head on the pillow, his eyes open to the ceiling, unseeing. The Captain lies down next to him in the same posture. There’s a square of plastic on the wall above the headboard; he reaches up and touches it, and darkness descends on them in an instant. The only light in the room is the intermittent red glow of the camera’s eye blinking on and off, on and off.

He shifts a little closer to the center of the bed, still not touching the Asset but closing the space between them, and then he clears his throat. It’s as clear a signal as he can possibly give under the circumstances— _listen, have something to tell you_. Nothing about the Asset’s demeanor changes, but the Captain can tell that he’s alert.

He brings his outside hand up to his chest and lays it across his heart and then slowly slides it down to his stomach, his abdomen, to the elastic waist of his loose pants. There’s nothing but the sound of his fingers sliding over the soft cotton and their intermingled exhalations, but then he presses down minutely and the paper that he’d taken from the recalibration room crinkles under his fingertips, hardly a sound at all, quiet enough that the microphones placed around the room won’t pick it up.

He hears the Asset’s breath catch for a moment, almost imperceptible, and then there’s the sound of his fingers ghosting over the sheet that covers the mattress. Cool metal fingertips brush against his knuckles, five dashes and one dot, Morse code for _OK._

He breathes a silent sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure that it was going to work, but there’s still the memory of a memory telling him that it has in the past, that this is something they’ve done before. He doesn’t know who the Asset is, exactly, just the same as he doesn’t know who he is himself. But he knows that he used to know, and it appears that the Asset does as well.

The Asset is silent beside him, his breathing steady and even, though the Captain can tell that he’s not going to sleep. He wiggles his fingers against the metal fingertips in acknowledgement and turns his head slightly on the pillow. In the faint red light, he can make out the Asset’s face, but barely. His eyes are still open, but then as the Captain watches, they slip closed and he sighs.

The Captain himself closes his own eyes again and wills sleep to come, wondering why this is one of the few bodily functions he doesn’t have full control over. It’s a weakness, like needing food, like bleeding when he is cut. Surely it’s a problem that should have been solved by now, right?

His mind follows that train of thought for a few more minutes and then he’s falling asleep, too. The last thing he feels is the touch of cool metal fingers brushing against his knuckles again and then grasping his own warm fingers in a loose, comforting grip.

* * *

Four hours later he wakes up when the sound of footsteps in the hall outside the door filters through the frame. The Asset is already awake, and he slips out of bed in a fluid, easy way that lets the Captain know that he’s recovered from the cryosleep and recalibration. The electric deadbolts click open and the door swings smoothly on its hinges. An anonymous technician enters with a tray, only coming far enough into the room to set it on the edge of the table, a guard with his gun drawn standing behind her. Then they leave, the deadbolts clicking into place again.

The food on the tray is some kind of mush, nothing that whets the appetite or lends itself to being savored, but at least it’s hot and it doesn’t come out of a tube. They sit on opposite sides of the small table and eat mechanically, spooning the mush into their mouths, each staring at the empty space between them. But after a moment, the Captain feels a light tap on his toe, just the one. He wiggles his own toes inside his slipper in acknowledgement, and the other foot rests on top of his for a moment before it begins to tap out a crude Morse code.

_P-A-P-E-R_

He knows it’s a question.

 _R-E-P-O-R-T,_ he taps out in reply.

At least, that’s what he thinks it is. The senior recalibration technician had forgotten to bring an extra pair of clothes for the Asset when the Captain had stripped him naked and hosed him down over the drain in the center of the floor, and had dispatched a junior technician to retrieve the clothes from somewhere else in the building. That technician had been rifling through a sheaf of papers and making notes when he’d been interrupted, and he had carelessly left the papers sitting out on top of the table where the Captain had led the Asset to eat after his recalibration in the chair.

A moment of distraction while the Asset retched again over the drain, and he’d had the top sheet secreted inside the waistband of his loose pants. He didn’t know why he’d done it; his hand had reached out of its own accord, folding the papers neatly between two fingers as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

 _R-E-A-D_ the Asset taps out on the top of his foot.

The Captain scrapes his spoon around the bottom of the bowl, scooping up the last traces of the insipid mush, and then leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and looking off into the distance over the Asset’s left shoulder. A move that looks nonchalant, nothing but a man with a full belly and a mind full of white noise, but it allows him to see the camera out of the corner of his eye, to scan the room with his eyes unfocused and find the blind spot. There’s always a blind spot, though he doesn’t know how he knows that. Doesn’t know how he knows Morse code, either, or the man who’s sitting hunched over his food on the other side of the table, but he does. Did. _I knew him._

 _B-E-D_ , he taps out, and then uses his toes to press the Asset’s foot firmly against the floor, not a warning, but a comfort, like a handshake, the friendly press of camaraderie. Then he stands up and walks the short distance to the bed, lying down on his side with his back to the Asset and the room at large, his knees drawn up slightly as if he’s curled around something he wants to protect.

He can hear the scrape of the Asset’s spoon against the bowl, louder now that there’s less food, or perhaps louder because the Asset is trying to create a cover for him. Without moving his upper arm, he reaches slowly down to his abdomen and slips his fingers inside the waistband of his pants, pulling the folded paper out slowly so that it doesn’t make a noise.

The Asset finishes his meal soon after and walks around to the other side of the bed and lies down, curling up on his side with his face toward the Captain and enclosing the space between them like a calyx round a flower bud.

He looks down at the folded paper and then meets the Captain’s eyes for the very first time. His eyes are blue, very blue and yet very grey at the same time, a color like the sky reflected on a piece of polished slate. They’re not the eyes of an Asset, and they make something in the Captain’s chest trip over itself, a big, painful, too-tight feeling like a bubble traveling through a vein.

The Asset’s eyes are intelligent, and when they flick back down to the paper and up again, the Captain knows that he’s being asked to get on it with. A minute quirk of his brow, hardly more than an involuntary twitch of the muscle, seems to say, _What are you waiting for?_ The Captain almost smiles; he doesn’t know why.

He nods, and then slips his finger under the first fold. The Asset nods in response and starts to speak, low enough that it won’t draw attention to them, but loud enough to cover the sound of the paper unfolding.

“Do you know what our mission is? Has the handler told you anything besides that we have forty-eight hours? They took you out of cryosleep earlier than me, perhaps they told you something.”

It’s enough, the papers lie flat on the bed between them, blocked from the camera’s eye by the breadth of the Captain’s shoulders. “They’ve told me nothing, and when they do, I will tell you what you need to know. You will let me handle it. You will do as you are told.”

He doesn’t know why he says this; it’s not exactly something that he wants to say, as far as he wants anything. As far as he knows how to want. But the Asset’s breath hitches in his throat the minutest amount, and his eyes narrow briefly, though the Captain only catches it because he’s holding the Asset’s gaze, wondering why those eyes make his chest so tight and his heart so weak. He files that information away for later, though. At the moment, there are more pressing matters.

He reluctantly breaks the gaze and turns his eyes toward the paper. It’s a printout of something, some form of digital communication. There’s a handwritten note in the margins in a blocky cursive that reads, “Ky, take this all the way up to Rumlow, if you can. Tell him I couldn’t forward it because of the digital papertrail, but if he acts fast, they won’t know they’re in trouble and he can get the records before they’re deleted. -L” Confusing, but not of any importance to them at the moment. The Captain moves on to the printed words.

_From: jamison.t@shield.gov_

_To: omalley.p@shield.gov_

_This mission is of the utmost importance, so you’d better not fuck it up this time, O’Malley. You remember what happened last time, right? To Severn? You do not want to end up like him, believe you me, somebody passed me the pictures. Anyway, so the last seven attempts to bring the serum back from other alternate universes were utter failures because it appears that it loses its integrity when you drag it through the wrong way through the ass-end of space. Who fucking knew? We’ve got the best theoretical physicists on the fucking planet, but I guess they have to make the same mistake seven times before they realize it’s not actually working._

_But anyway, you can bring the serum back if you’ve already stuck it inside a supersoldier, right? We know that, obviously, we’ve sent those two creepy bastards back and forth through time enough that we’d know if it fucked up the serum in their blood._

_So the big idea now is that they’re going to send the Asset to some other place and get him to pick up whatever Captain exists in that world and bring him back here so they can recalibrate him. It seems a super inefficient way to make new supersoldiers, but I guess in the absence of the serum, it’s the next best thing. Sounds crazy to me, and anyway, what do we need more supersoldiers for? Those two are as good as all the rest of SHIELD put together. I mean, not you and me, obviously, we’re scientists, not cut-rate mindwiped RoboCops, but they’re definitely better assets than the dregs of humanity that SHIELD uses as cannon fodder. And it’s not like there’s much work for them, either. Since the last rebellion was quelled, it seems like the resistance has lost their fire. Ehh. It was about time._

_Right, so anyway. You know what to do, defrost both of those bastards, go through the whole standard procedure, and then stick them in a room together. Use the one we’ve used before. That’s supposed to make them bond or something, fuck if I know. Apparently they’re much more biddable if you leave them alone together for a while and then send them out to fight. I don’t even know what they do, but probably fuck like rabbits if the guys in surveillance are telling the truth. They’re not even both going out this time, but I guess the big idea is to send one out on a mission and keep the other one at home where we can shoot him if the first one fails._

_I know what you’re going to say and I completely agree, but you know how it is. Top brass gets ideas and we’re the assholes who have to carry them out._

_Whatever, not like it’s any skin off of our backs, we just do our jobs and whether it succeeds or fails is a problem for the assholes at the top._

_Right, so I’ll see you tomorrow for the debriefing, I’m sure they’ll tell you everything I just said, but with more fancy words thrown in. God, I hate Director Rumlow, he talks like he’s such a big shot but you know, he never even finished college._

The Captain looks up again and watches as the Asset’s eyes flick back and forth under his thick, dark eyelashes. He’s reading the paper upside down, and he finishes just after the Captain does, meeting his eyes again.

His brow creases minutely, something in his face betraying a worry that he seems to want to articulate. But he can’t. Not here, not now. Later, in the dark, when their lips can’t be read.

The Captain clears his throat a little. “We need to sleep,” he says sternly. “We have a mission in less than forty-eight hours and we need to be prepared.” While he’s talking, he carefully folds the paper back up again and slips it into his waistband. He’ll dispose of it in the toilet later.

The Asset is the one who reaches up this time to turn off the light, his metal fingers clicking lightly against the plastic switch cover. The room descends into total darkness again, save for the eternal red eye. And then, to the Captain’s surprise, the Asset… scoots closer. Not by much, but enough to turn the space between them from gibbous to crescent. Then neither of them move, waiting for something to happen, or at least the Captain is waiting for something to happen. The Asset seems to be in a state of suspended animation, almost like he’s caught in the moment between one heartbeat and the next.

Then all of a sudden, the Captain knows. They’ve done this before, or something like this. Close enough that he can feel the pattern of impulse running through his veins, telling him what to do next. He brings his hands up between them and catches the Asset’s wrists in one hand, and the Asset lets him, pliant and soft. He pulls the wrists up and above the Asset’s head, pressing them to the top of the thin pillow, touching the headboard. He still can’t see much in the faint red glow of the camera on the other side of the room, but with his other hand, he pushes the Asset’s hair away from his face, anyway, and tucks it behind his ear. The Asset’s face is obscured by the shadow of his biceps, but the Captain can tell that his eyes are closed and his mouth is open, lax and inviting.

“Do you remember this?” he whispers. He doesn’t remember it himself, or at least it’s not a memory. It’s just an instinct, something his body knows how to do, passed down to him from his self in another life.

“Not,”—the Asset arm twitches, as if he wants to gesture with his hand, but then he stills and goes limp again—“not a memory. But something else, yes.”

“An impression.”

The Asset nods. “An intimation,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. Goosebumps rush down the Captain’s arms, his chest, the back of his neck.

“I don’t know who you are, but I know that I know you,” the Captain says.

The Asset doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head. Then he breaks the hold on his wrists and rolls over so that he’s in the Captain’s space, now, close enough to constitute a clear and present threat. But the Captain feels nothing but a warm, pleased purr in his chest, which turns into the rumble of a well-laid fire when the Asset wriggles around like a cat making a nest and then settles his head on the Captain’s chest, tucked neatly underneath his chin.

* * *

Eight hours later they’re interrupted again by the _snick_ of the electric deadbolts on the door, and though the Captain reaches up to click on the light, they don’t bother to disentangle themselves before the door opens and the technician comes in with the tray. They were supposed to be bonding, was what the paper said, so surely evidence of a bond being forged would make their masters happy, right?

The technician doesn’t even spare them a glance, just sets the tray on the table and leaves.

Mush again, but with more flavor this time, something the captain identifies as potatoes and carrots underlying the chemically-enhanced blandness of the food. They eat sitting cross-legged on the bed, unwilling, for the time being to sit farther apart. The Captain feels a turmoil in his innermost parts that he doesn’t know what to do with. He’s an asset, this much he knows. Not _the_ Asset but similar, an automaton, a mechanical man. Automatons don’t feel things, they are empty vessels that carry out complex orders, nothing more.

And yet…

Something must change in his posture because the Asset looks up at him curiously. The Captain’s back is to the camera. _I know you_ , he mouths, slowly, just in case the Asset isn’t a proficient lip reader. But the Asset barely even glances at his mouth before he tilts his chin in the direction of the camera and then goes back to his bowl of mush again.

When they’re finished, they lie back down. The Captain turns the light off—might as well; at the very least it will keep whoever is watching from catching the finer details of their movements.

The Asset settles down on his side, his head on the Captain’s pillow. “I know you, too,” he whispers. “But I don’t remember you. It’s just something—” He brings his hand up and touches his chest. The Captain nods because that’s exactly what it is.

“Will we ever remember?”

“I don’t know.”

They move closer together, legs entangled, hands clutching at shirts. It feels right, somehow, in a way that’s impossible to articulate. It feels like a fourth corner to round out the square, like setting a cleanly-broken bone. It feels like a universal truth, whatever that is.

* * *

They fall asleep holding on to each other, but six hours and twenty minutes later, the Asset sits bolt upright with a violent gasp. Though his face is not easy to read in the faint red light, the Captain can see that it’s a broken mass of pain and anguish. He’s trembling, and he shies away from the Captain’s hand when he reaches out with a comforting touch.

The Captain lets him sit and tremble for a while, at least a quarter of an hour. He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to do; he knows that his overarching internal directive is to take care of the Asset, though he doesn’t know why, but he has no idea how to go about doing that apart from the basics of food and sleep.

Finally the Asset lies back down, staring at the ceiling lost in the darkness. Another quarter of an hour passes before he says, “I remember.”

His voice is hoarse, but he’s speaking at full volume.

“Remember what?” the Captain whispers.

“Whispering will do no good,” the Asset answers. “They know if you remember. They always know. They want us to remember so that they can use it against us.”

A wave of despair washes over the Captain. It’s not a feeling he’s ever had before, or at least… not in the last sixteen hours. “Alright,” is all he can muster.

Silence descends again. The Captain wanders through the empty corridors of his own mind, looking for something, anything that indicates there’s something in there to remember. There are no doors in the corridors, though, not even locked doors, nor barricaded. Just smooth plastered walls and ghosts that he sees like a trick of the eye when he rounds the corner.

More time passes. The Asset clears his throat and says, “I don’t remember much. We… we know each other. I think your name is… is Steve.”

 _Steve_ , the Captain mouths to himself. It’s a strange name, too thin in the mouth. But he repeats it a few more times, and it starts to sound almost familiar.

“We… we’ve worked together for a long time. And before that we were apart. But before _that_ , we… we knew each other.”

“How?” He’s still whispering, he can’t really help himself. The need for secrecy is so strong it almost muzzles him completely.

There’s a long pause. “I don’t know. I think you were very small.”

“That sounds like a false memory, maybe it’s implanted.”

He watches the way the Asset’s face creases as he squints his eyes, searching for something in his decimated memory banks. “I.. I don’t think so. Maybe.”

The Captain reaches out across the space between them and takes the Asset’s hand. The cool touch of the metal and the ridges that span his elegant fingers are familiar, but not in a way that he _knows_. Was there another hand, once?

“Why don’t I remember?” he asks.

“You… you don’t. I think. Not right away. I remember first. I don’t know why.”

More time passes. It’s nearing the time for their next meal, but the Captain doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to turn on the light. The darkness is full of possibility and he feels like he can spelunk inside himself to dredge up whatever it is that was burned out of him by the chair.

“Are the memories good?” he finally asks, though it’s a stupid question. There is no good or bad. There’s only the chair, the cryotube, a host of anonymous technicians, the Asset.

“Not… not the ones I can remember. But there are others that I can see the outlines of, like wisps of smoke. Maybe they’re good. They feel good.”

Then he pulls his fingers out of the Captain’s hand and reaches up to touch the side of his face, where the old scars are overlaid with fresh electrical burns now scabbed over. The pain and the itch of his healing skin had been easy enough to ignore, but now the touch of the Asset’s metal fingers brings it flaring back to life. It’s soothing, though, the coolness against his tender skin. He brings his own hand up and presses the metal fingers against his temple.

“I… I remember this,” the Asset says. “You… they, they put you in the chair—”

“But I always go first, you never see me in the chair,” the Captain interrupts. “Right? They told me…”

“This time I did. I don’t know why. You, you were fighting, you were screaming something at me, but I can’t… I don’t remember what.” His face is contorted as if he’s in pain, but his voice is low and even, and the Captain is torn between making him stop talking so that the pain will go away and wanting to know more.

“There was a gun. Maybe they damaged me, I don’t know. Then you were in the chair and they turned it on and, and—” He breaks off, the last word bitten back into his mouth.

The Captain realizes that the sudden faint gleam on the Asset’s face is wetness. Are they tears? Why is the Asset crying?

“Are you in pain?” he asks. Perhaps something is wrong, perhaps he hasn’t fully recovered from the recalibration process like the Captain had thought.

“No? I don’t know,” the Asset says, and then shakes his head roughly. The movement pulls on his arm and jostles his fingers slightly against the ruined skin on the Captain’s face. It makes a fresh wave of pain flare up in the scars, but it’s easy to ignore. The pain on the Asset’s face, however, is much more difficult to overlook.

“What else?” he asks. Might as well finish talking about whatever it is that the Asset is remembering; maybe the pain will bring relief, like pulling out a splinter or a rotten tooth.

“I don’t know.” The Captain can hear the Asset grinding his teeth in frustration, but the fingers on his temple don’t even twitch. “Something went wrong, it sounded like you were dying, they turned the machine off and your mouth was covered in blood and your face was this...” He stops and takes a deep breath. He pulls his hand away and uses it to wipe his face off. His voice is still steady and soft. “You were unconscious. They dragged you away. I don’t know what happened after that.”

The Captain feels an ache in his chest, like a soft bruise on his heart, though he doesn’t know what it is. Some tender, unidentifiable feeling makes him say, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

The Asset shrugs. “I don’t remember feeling anything about it, then. It only hurts now.”

The Captain reaches out without thinking and pulls him closer, into the circle of his arms. But instead of lying peacefully, the Asset surges up on his elbows until he’s looming over the Captain, his hair falling down around his face and his face itself nothing more than a dark smudge in the dark room. In the next moment he leans down and presses their lips together, the dry imitation of a kiss.

The Captain freezes in surprise and then surges up, thrusting his tongue into the Asset’s open mouth. At the first hot, wet taste of him, it’s like a line connects somewhere on a faraway grid and his whole body lights up in a blaze of right-feeling glory. Time passes, and he pulls away to say, “Have we done this before?” while the Asset pants above him.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice already sounds like it’s unraveling. “But it sure seems like it.” He swings one leg over the Captain’s hips and settles himself over his groin, pressing down, grinding their cocks together. His hands go on either side of the Captain’s chest, his hair hanging down again and obscuring his face. Suddenly, the Captain can’t bear not to see him, not even what little he can see in the dark. He bends his knee to give him leverage and flips them over, catching the Asset’s wrists again and pinning them over his head. Just like the last time, the Asset goes limp and soft underneath him, spreading his legs without a fight when the Captain presses a knee between them.

His face in the scant light is painfully beautiful to look at, the darkness obscuring the details enough that his mind wants to superimpose another face there instead. A younger face with fuller lips and a rounder chin, skin pink and taut with the freshness of youth. His heart burns again with the aching feeling and he feels, all of a sudden, at such a loss that he does the only thing he can think of to drive that other face out of his head. He pushes his way between the Asset’s thighs and uses his free hand to pull his cock out of his pants.

He doesn’t ever remember doing this before, and from the look on the Asset’s face, he doesn’t remember either, but his motor memory knows exactly where this is going and he lets it guide the way. One quick tug and the Asset’s pants are pulled down around the tops of his thighs and the Captain takes both of their cocks in his hand. He leans back, hunches over, and spits on where their cockheads are squeezed together, then twists his hand to spread the spit around. The Asset makes a high-pitched noise that sounds like distress, but when the Captain looks up, his eyes are pinched shut and his mouth is hanging open; it’s not distress at all, but pleasure knocking him out of his head. He tugs a little at the Captain’s grip on his wrists but doesn’t try to pull away; this is familiar to the Captain, for some reason that he can’t name.

Also familiar in that completely unfamiliar way is the feeling that floods through his belly and the heat that pools in the girdle of his hips. He pushes up into his fist, sliding against the smooth skin of the Asset’s cock and through the narrow ring made by his thumb and forefinger; pleasure explodes across the surface of his brain like a crackle of lightning, and the Asset makes a high, soft noise in the back of his throat.

It’s only a matter of a few minutes, then, each clumsily thrusting out of time with the other. His breath comes in halting gasps, but the Asset makes a symphony of little sounds, shameless and beautiful to hear. At the very end, when he can feel that his orgasm is about to happen, the Captain looks up from where he’s been watching their cockheads squeeze clumsily out of the end of his fist and sees the Asset’s eyes gleam as they roll back in his head and he comes in great thick white spurts all over his own chest.

The Captain increases the speed of his own fist—he’s so close, he can feel it right on the horizon—and then as the Asset starts to squirm underneath him, his vision goes bright white and pleasure explodes through his core.

Afterwards, the Asset sits up and strips his shirt off. It’s covered with come already, but he flips it inside out and uses it to wipe the Captain’s hands in a reverent, tender gesture that bruises his heart once again. The light is still off, but he can see the dark line where the Asset’s metal arm meets the pale, fragile skin of his shoulder. He reaches out and lays his hand on the join, as the Asset did with the scarring on the side of his face, and then lies down on his side, using the hand on his shoulder to pull the Asset into his arms. The ache of his heart wars with the satiated weakness in his limbs and he readies himself to fall asleep. But before he loses consciousness, he hears the Asset hiss softly, which then turns into a word: “Steve.”

* * *

A meal passes and then another. When they’re not eating, they’re lying in the bed, exploring each other’s bodies with their mouths and fingers, talking quietly about anything that lies in the narrow ambit of their combined memories, and sleeping tangled together, two bodies trying to become one.

A few hours before the last meal, the Captain leads the Asset into the bathroom. There’s a shower they haven’t used in the nearly two days they’ve been shut up in the room, and even to his inexperienced nose, he can tell that they reek of sex and sweat and the kind of effluvia that two bodies produce when they spend a long time pressed together. He doesn’t want to wash it off—he feels almost territorial about it, his smell seeping into the Asset’s pores and vice versa. But he also feels a dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of being found by his handler in such a state; he doesn’t know why, but in the last two days, he has learned to trust the things he knows without knowing why he knows them.

So he pulls the Asset into the shower and spends as long as he possibly can washing him. The soap smells of nothing and there’s no sponge, so he uses his hands to work up a lather and smooth it over the Asset’s skin. He runs his palms down the Asset’s arms, the flesh and metal ones together, and then takes his hands and soaps each finger, one by one. The broad muscles of the Asset’s back and the softer ones of his chest, then the rippling planes of his stomach and the shallow troughs where his hips melt into his groin. It feels good to clean the Asset, to use his hands to do something useful, to take care. A warm glow of satisfaction spreads through his chest, in tandem with the arousal he can feel creeping up his spine.

All the while, the Asset stands still and submits, his breathing deep and steady. Only his cock jutting out from his body and the minute shivers that run through his frame give away his agitation.

The Captain continues down his thighs, squeezing and kneading at the flesh under the pretext of giving him a thorough washing because the impulse controls him; he’s helpless in the face of such a powerful mass of muscle trembling sweetly under his touch. Knees, graceful calves, and then he lifts each foot and washes the sole, the heel, the hidden spaces between each toe.

When he’s done and he stands back up again, the Asset moves back under the stream of water, washing the suds away. Then he holds his hand out for the soap, but the captain says, “I’m not done yet.” There’s still enough lather on his hands; he reaches out and cradles the Asset’s balls in the palm of one hand and then runs his other hand down the thick swell of his ass, dipping into the crack and pressing one slick finger to his rim.

The Asset gasps and shivers violently, and the Captain pulls back, thinking that maybe he’s gone too far. But then the Asset turns around, his back to the Captain, his hands on the wall of the shower and his legs spread. He cants his hips back and says, “Please,” in a broken voice, like a man asking for a dose of the only medicine that will save his life.

The Captain feels pulled in two directions, he wants to scream, he wants to weep, he wants to fuck and fight and fall to the bottom of the shower and let the water erode his skin and bones away. But the Asset stands there waiting, shivering from time to time while the Captain struggles through the feeling of being violently born.

“Not like that,” he finally says, his bruised heart in his throat. “Close your legs, your feet together.” He squeezes some more soap from the bottle into the palm of his hand and then runs it between the Asset’s thighs, smooth and hairless and slick as wet glass. He palms his own cock—he’s been hard for the last ten minutes, at least— and then steps forward, lining himself up with the valley where the Asset’s thighs meet. He fucks into that tight, miraculous space as he brings his hand around and palms the Asset’s cock, running the ridges of his fingers in a swirl around the head and then back down the shaft again to cup his balls, feeling the head of his own cock pushing into them from behind.

After the first tender moment or two he sets a punishing pace, thrusting ruthlessly between the Asset’s thighs and jerking him off twice as fast with his soapy hand. He doesn’t want it to last, he wants to make the Asset cry out for him, he wants to feel the tension that thrums through his thighs condense into that one incomparable point of light, he wants to own the Asset in a way that he suddenly realizes is love.

The Asset wails, sounding thoroughly broken, and then his whole body tightens up and he comes. His thighs tense so much it’s almost painful, and the Captain lets go of his cock to grasp him by the hips and pound into him for another minute until his orgasm overtakes him, collapsing against the Asset’s broad back and breathing in great gulps of humid air.

When he feels like he can stand on his own two feet again, he steps back under the water and washes the sweat off, then takes the Asset by the hand and pulls him to his chest, one hand in his hair. He looks at the ceiling, not acknowledging the camera, but letting it know that he knows it’s there while he tries to work through the roiling coil of feelings in his chest.

There’s sorrow and anger and grief, all things he feels for the first time since he’d stepped out of the chair. Perhaps it’s the recalibration gradually wearing off, or the effect of forty-eight hours in the Asset’s presence. At any rate, the sorrow and anger and grief are small, insignificant feelings in the face of—

“Steve,” the Asset whispers into the divot where his collarbones meet.

Tears spring unbidden to the Captain’s eyes; _I don’t even know your name,_ he thinks. But he knows another name that will do just as well. He kisses the Asset’s forehead and then pulls him in closer with the arm around his shoulders. “My love,” he whispers, just loud enough that it‘s not entirely lost in the hiss of water falling around them.

* * *

**Image** : the Captain and the Asset, embracing | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

At exactly the forty-eight-hour mark, their handler comes to retrieve them. The Asset is given a set of tactical gear, all leather and kevlar, but the Captain has nothing but a clean pair of the same soft pants and shirt he’d been given after recalibration. _Keep the other one at home where we can shoot him if the first one fails,_ he can see it printed on the paper, and that’s how he knows that he’s the one who is staying home. He’s the collateral, the reason the Asset will return to this terrible place. He wishes they had more time, even two minutes of relative privacy in which he could tell the Asset, _run, leave, don’t come back for me, please._

But then they are led to a room eerily similar to the one where the cryotubes and the chair are kept, but this one is full of computers and what look like sensors, equipment to monitor something important, though the Captain doesn’t know what.

Their handler doesn’t tell them where to stand, so they remain side by side in the center of the room while another man paces back and forth with a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

“Asset, your mission is to travel to at least one other reality and make contact with the version of Steven Grant Rogers of Brooklyn, New York that you find there. You are looking for a specific version of Rogers, which means that you may have to travel to more than one universe to find him. The Rogers we want has already had the superserum which turned him into something like the man standing next to you. Do not bring any other Rogers back to this universe; you will be punished and he will be destroyed. When you find a Rogers who fits the description—”

The Captain tunes out the next part of the instructions, his mind reeling. He feels sick. _Steven Grant Rogers, Steven Grant Rogers,_ he repeats to himself. _That’s my name._ _I was a man, once. I was from Brooklyn, New York_. All of the words sound true, even if he’s never heard them before.

“—and he’ll know you as James Buchanan Barnes, though he may call you Bucky. That’s the name you went by in this universe.”

The Captain feels his stomach turn over and he grits his teeth against the bitter taste in his throat. _Bucky Bucky Bucky,_ he wants to scream it, he wants to smash his fist into the smug face of the handler, he wants to tear all of their throats out so that they never say the name Bucky again.

But at that moment, one of the guards steps forward and pulls out his sidearm. The Captain— _Steve_ —Steve hears the click of the bullet sliding into the chamber when he cocks the gun, and then it is pressing cold and insistently against his temple. The itch in his scars flares to life again, but the cold ring at the end of the muzzle doesn’t soothe him the way the Asset’s fingers did. _Bucky._ Bucky’s fingers.

“And of course, you know what will happen if you fail in your mission,” the man says, his grin a thin, sharp thing like a flaying knife. “We will find you and destroy you, but not before you watch us destroy him.” He sneers. “Your pal, your buddy, your Stevie.”

Steve looks at Bucky and Bucky looks back at him. Innocent-looking plush pink mouth, the soft pad of fat nestled under his strong jaw, blue-grey slate-sky eyes that fill with tears as Steve watches helplessly. But then Bucky blinks them away and when he looks back up, Steve can see it in his eyes as plain as day. _I love you_. He puts everything he has into his own glance, and he knows that Bucky can see his own _I love you_ returned by the way his mouth twitches, the very embryo of a smile.

Then Bucky turns to the handler, and says “I’m ready.” A small device is slipped into the palm of his hand. He turns to look back at Steve one more time, then he presses a button and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild consent issues: the Captain and the Asset have sex twice, but consent is never verbally expressed.


	2. Sometimes I Wake Up By The Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shadow huddles into itself even more, pressing against the building’s wall, away from Steve. Arms protecting its middle, head as low as it will go, pressed against its knees. 
> 
> “Please don’t hurt me,” comes the voice, small and sad and pleading. 
> 
> Steve’s heart batters his ribs, hope thrashing in his lungs, his eyes widening as his mouth slowly falls open. He lowers the shield. “Bucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Nospheratt and ursa.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks as wide as Steve’s shoulders to all my co-creators for encouragement, support, grammar, beta, inspiration, and general awesomeness. 
> 
> They wrangled everything, from my depressed, doubtful ass to the grammar nightmare I created when I decided to switch this to present tense (I'd never done it before). 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you. 💜
> 
> Any and all mistakes are absolutely mine.
> 
> * * *

The mission went okay. Steve is bruised and tired, but no major injuries, no civilian deaths—it’s a success as far as he’s concerned. 

Tony insisted he allow Happy to take him home, since it’s raining. It’s been raining for four days, and Steve can smell it through the open window, the hint of petrichor underneath the gas fumes and the myriad smells of New York City. 

The air is cleaner, lighter in Brooklyn. Steve likes his street, punctuated with trees and filled with old brownstones, guarding their inhabitants with watchful, silent eyes. 

When he gets out of the limo, he thanks Happy and stands for a moment under the drizzle, turning his face up to the evening sky. Autumn is still just a promise, the air warm enough that he welcomes the cool rain like a cleansing over his skin, washing away dried blood from his forehead, his cheeks, his hands. 

As soon as the limo departs, he turns to his gate and freezes. There’s a shadow hidden beside his front steps. Someone waiting for him. 

His gut sours. He’d hoped he’d have more time before the enemies discovered where he lives, but, well. That’s for normal people, isn’t it. Not for him. Sighing, weary, he approaches the steps silently, ostensibly unaware of the threat but ready to take the shield off the harness in a second.

Instead of opening the low gate, he jumps over it, bounces up from the steps to the left, and lands in a crouch in front of the intruder, shield on his arm, protecting his front. 

The shadow huddles into itself even more, pressing against the building’s wall, away from Steve. Arms protecting its middle, head as low as it will go, pressed against its knees. 

“Please don’t hurt me,” comes the voice, small and sad and pleading. 

Steve’s heart batters his ribs, hope thrashing in his lungs, his eyes widening as his mouth slowly falls open. He lowers the shield. “Bucky?” 

* * *

**Image** : Steve sees Bucky | **Art by** : [ursa](https://twitter.com/ursasero/)

* * *

The face that looks up at him, washed by the pouring rain, is undeniably Bucky’s. The long, tangled hair. The metal arm clasping his stomach. The crystal blue-gray eyes, wild with sadness and the same fear he remembers from the Triskelion. _Bucky_. 

After years looking for him, Bucky is at Steve’s doorstep. Trembling, almost disbelieving, Steve stretches a hand up to brush a matted lock from Bucky’s face, but he flinches away. 

“Please,” Bucky begs, cracking Steve’s heart into a million pieces. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m not your Bucky, but please don’t hurt me.”

Steve’s entire being freezes, hope dying a pitiful death in his chest. “What do you mean, not my Bucky?” 

“I’m not from your universe.” He sounds so tired, so defeated. “I’ve been here for days. Waiting.” His throat works, and he swallows before saying, “For you.” 

“Waiting,” Steve echoes, dumbly, feeling as if he’s crumbling to dust, turning into nothing under the drizzle, to be carried away by the wind. 

Why, Steve wants to ask. But Bucky is unnaturally still. Under the wash of the rain, his skin is grayish, sickly. The dark shadows under his eyes speak of exhaustion so deep not even the serum is enough anymore. 

_I’ve been here for days,_ he said. 

* * *

**Image** : Bucky huddles under the rain | **Art by** : [ursa](https://twitter.com/ursasero/)

* * *

Steve can’t even begin to think about the implications of Bucky’s words—other universes. Another Bucky. _Not his Bucky_. It all reverberates inside his skull as he feels his body entering the first stages of shock, the small pains of his cuts and bruises disappearing as his breath gets short and his blood races like wildfire through his veins. But Bucky is in bad shape. He needs immediate help, and there’s no way, no universe, where Steve would leave Bucky to suffer. 

Even if he really isn’t “his” Bucky, as he said. He is _a_ Bucky, and Steve will always, always protect a Bucky, no matter what. 

“Let’s get in.” Steve stands up and offers a hand, but Bucky keeps his gaze on Steve’s face and doesn’t move. “C’mon. You need to get out of the rain and into warm clothes. How long have you been here? When was the last time you ate? Or had some water.”

“Don’t know.” Bucky purses his lips, shrugs a careless,stiff shoulder. “Been here since you left.”

 _Oh gods_. Steve has been away for almost two weeks. Gritting his teeth, he shoves his rage down. First, he will help Bucky. Finding out who he’ll murder for making Bucky suffer, _that_ will come later. “Whatever it is you want from me, we can talk about it inside. Please?”

Finally, Bucky nods, curt and stiff, and stands up. It’s evident his body is at its limits—the stuttered way he moves is nothing like the slick, fluid grace of the Winter Soldier. 

*****

All the Asset wants is to stay there, sitting against the wall, huddled under the rain. The yawning abyss of some unnamed loss eats at him with cold teeth, a loss that he doesn’t have a name for but which shreds his being all the same. Everything hurts. He wants to be left to die, be forgotten and devoured by oblivion. 

Maybe then he wouldn’t hurt anymore. Maybe then he would rest. 

_No, never, not without him,_ his bones scream, the teeth digging deeper into his core. No. He won’t give up. The handlers have his Captain— _Steve_ , he remembers now, and the name is a drop of sunlight in his chest, the memory like wisps of dawn around his heart. Steve. The handlers have Steve. 

His very core burns, hot rage bubbling and running poisonous through his veins, a sharp contrast to the cold consuming his flesh. Steve is all that matters. The Asset needs to go back, and he can’t go back without fulfilling his mission or they’ll kill Steve.

With a shudder, he goes cold all over again, something old and rusty prickling his skin. Fear. The Asset doesn’t care about what happens to himself. He is nothing, a machine, a broken, old thing. But Steve is everything. 

The Asset won’t let Steve die. Won’t leave Steve behind.

 _Focus. The mission. Fulfill the mission. Go back to Steve_. 

*****

The Asset has been out here for days, every day colder and more miserable. With nothing to do but wait and think about the way Steve had looked at him before the Asset pressed the button that brought him here. How his eyes had said _I love you_. The way they’d touched one another, like discovering something sacred, vows exchanged, coming together in body and soul.

Every minute of every hour, the need to go back, touch Steve, _save him, protect him_ , is an ache in the marrow of his bones, so intense he’s breathless with it. But the handlers must have fucked up the mission from the start, sending the Asset here either too late or too early. 

The Captain hadn’t been home when the Asset arrived. He’d asked a neighbor about him, under the guise of being a delivery man. 

Report: Captain Rogers had departed for a mission scant minutes before the Asset’s arrival.  
Location: unknown.  
Time of return: unknown. 

The nature of the Asset’s current mission means it would have been useless to go after the Captain. As he’d analyzed the situation, his instincts told him that trying to fight the Captain wasn’t the best strategy. 

Step one: establish if this is the Steve Rogers they want.  
Step two: fuck if he knows. 

If this Rogers is like his Steve, subduing him and taking him back alive will be nigh impossible. Maybe the Asset can ask him for help…but no. If he takes back the wrong Rogers, they’ll kill Steve. The Asset needs more data before taking such a risk.

The only logical path was to wait for the Captain. The Asset hadn’t found any good hiding spots, finally resigning himself to hiding beside the brownstone’s front steps, huddled in the shadows. Where nobody would spot him.

Except, of course, for the Captain. 

As the days go on, he doesn’t dare leave to get food or water or rest, not at the risk of losing another chance to fulfill his mission. Time keeps dripping slowly from the sky, day, night, another day and another night. Sunset and dawn call forth ragged threads of memories to tangle around his legs, creeping from the shadowed corners of his mind. 

A blond head bright like the morning sun. Bloodied fists and a stubbornness too big for a small body, all sharp angles and brittle bones. The soft touch of fingertips, feverish skin. Lips, breath, whispers. 

The Asset doesn’t know what any of it means, or if it’s even real. But he knows it’s important. He hoards these small crumbles like pieces of a puzzle, hides them under his ribs, inside his heart. 

Hour by hour he grows more tired, his body screaming in pain and hunger and thirst. When it starts to rain, at least he has water to drink. And then the cold, seeping from his clothes to his skin, to muscle and bone, until he’s freezing, his body not even trembling anymore.

This everlasting, bone-creaking, unforgiving cold is familiar. It reminds him of cryo. Except unconsciousness isn’t coming to save him from the pain, from the sorrow. 

The worst torture, the worst misery he knows, is this. Remembering Steve, his Steve, and not knowing what is happening to him. Is he safe? Asleep in cryofreeze? Being hurt, maybe wiped by the chair?

Maybe they’ve already wiped the Asset from his memories. Maybe Steve will not say _I love you_ anymore. Won’t know the Asset loves him. 

An anguished growl crawls up his throat, and he tamps it down. Repeats the mantra that has kept the few threads of his sanity from completely unravelling. _Focus. Fulfill the mission. Go back to Steve_. 

*****

The Asset is so tired. Everything hurts. He doesn’t want to move. 

But the Captain wants the Asset to follow him inside. Even though the Asset has already failed, already said he isn’t the person this Captain calls Bucky. He had hoped to gain trust before he confessed. But he’s delirious with exhaustion, and the prospect of more suffering compelled him to do something he isn’t allowed to do: beg. 

The Captain doesn’t strike him when the truth slips from his tongue. Doesn’t even seem angry. Just…sad. 

The Asset doesn’t like seeing the Captain sad, but he doesn’t know how to make him…not sad. 

So he does what he knows how to do. Obey. He stands up, and follows the Captain. 

The dark blue uniform is nothing like his Steve’s black tac gear, which is a twin to the Asset’s own gear. The Captain’s belt, harness and gloves are made of thick brown leather, instead of black. But what rattles the Asset’s teeth is the lack of scars in this Captain’s face. Except for a few fresh cuts and bruises, he is unmarred, and for some reason that makes the Asset’s stomach hurt, a silent growl rumbling on the back of his throat. 

Both of them are drenched at this point, leaving little rivulets of water behind them in the entrance hall. The Captain stops just inside the door and divests himself of the shield, the harness, and an outer layer of his uniform that leaves his abdomen bare, covered only by a sheer panel. The Asset can see how tiny his waist really is. He can see his belly button, and his pectorals clearly defined under the central black panel, a flimsy thing that does nothing to contain the Captain’s muscles. 

The Asset swallows hard, his brain flashing sensations and sounds at him, a strong hand keeping his wrists captive, a knee shoved between his legs, a hot mouth against his own. He bites his lip to keep a groan inside, a pit of heat slowly warming his belly, even frozen as he is. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he ponders if he’d be allowed to lick those abs, that beautiful chest. Even through the fabric, it would be glorious.

“You can leave your things here, if you want.” The Captain’s voice makes the Asset’s eyes snap up. It’s so much like his Steve’s voice, deep and rumbly, except the Captain’s timbre is smooth and solid, like rocks under water, while the words sound like scraped gravel when they come from Steve’s throat, a hint of distant thunder underneath them. The Captain crouches to remove his boots, gaze turned away from the Asset’s face. “Keep your weapons if you want, but whatever you feel like taking off, just leave it here.”

The Captain sounds half-way between dizzy and in shock. The Asset does not like that. 

“Are you hurt?” He finds himself asking. The Captain is a Steve. A Steve’s wellbeing is the most important thing.

“Not much.” The Captain shrugs, sitting still on the floor, gaze lost on his boots for a moment. “I’m just—” He shakes his head and stands up. “Don’t worry about it.”

A direct order. The Asset does not possess the ability to truly follow it, but he knows that pretending to follow an impossible order is the best way to avoid punishment, if avoiding punishment is at all possible…which is a rare occurrence. 

With a curt nod, he proceeds to remove his boots. His gloves. His tac vest. 

Even his weapons he lays down on the small side table by the door. There’s no point in carrying them, because two things are true.

One: The Captain can disarm him with a word. 

Two: the Asset will die before causing the Captain—any version of his Captain—damage or pain. 

So he lays his weapons down with a sigh of relief. The weight of the knives and firearms had plastered the waterlogged fabric so tightly to his body, some of his sharp blades had cut into him. Once he starts taking things off, he doesn’t want to stop. 

The Captain’s first order—leave behind anything you want—means he has permission to strip completely. Every piece of clothing that comes off wrenches a quiet groan of relief from his chest. He traps all of them in the back of his throat. 

The Asset is not allowed to make noise. Except with Steve. _For_ Steve. Steve had ripped sounds from the Asset with pleasure, made him shameless and careless, playing the Asset’s body with the same ruthless determination he uses to sharpen his knives, precise and lethal. 

_My love_ , Steve had whispered and somehow the Asset had understood. How either of them knows what that means is a mystery, but they love each other all the same, a truth as immutable as the laws of physics. 

Steve’s absence is a growing void inside the Asset, breaking his bones, corroding his flesh, lashing his skin. _I_ will _go back to you_ , he promises silently, the words sturdy in his mind like an oath. 

“Bucky, oh gods. I’m so sorry,” the Captain chokes out, and Bucky is yanked back to the present. Blue eyes bright, Steve gnaws on his lower lip, his gaze roaming the Asset’s body. Not with desire, but with horror. The Captain blinks several times, but tears stubbornly escape his eyes to run down his face as he looks at the scars spiderwebbing over the Asset’s shoulder and torso. 

Oh. 

“The scars don’t hurt,” the Asset offers. 

They had in the past, for a long time. But not anymore. The weight of the arm still pulls at his spine, making his back and shoulder hurt constantly. After having spent days curled into a miserable ball under the rain, he is covered in bruises and cuts everywhere. His skin has been chaffed raw in several places, his neck is stiff and sore. But the scars…they don’t hurt. 

The Captain gurgles a strangled noise, closes his eyes for a moment. “Buck,” he finally says. 

That _does_ hurt. That name, spoken like that. Whispering of shared history, longing. Love. Grief for a lost one. 

Everything the Asset had glimpsed in his scarred Steve’s eyes in the last moments, in those few, precious hours before. The things they both had tried to grasp with trembling fingers, reaching for one another in the dark like the ocean reaches for the rocks, crashing together, weaving broken memories and desperate need with their bodies, trying to find… a way home, maybe.

The Asset doesn’t even know exactly what that means. It exists in his consciousness like so many other things, a whisper at the edge of his thoughts, a shadow vanishing in the corner of his eyes, something warm and hazy in his belly. It feels good, it feels like Steve, and the Asset knows this truth in his bones. There’s no home—whatever that may be—without Steve. 

Logical conclusion: Steve _is_ home. 

But the Asset is a thing, a broken thing. He can’t save Steve from _them_. He isn’t good enough for anything or anyone. His only value is as a weapon, a thing to be used and thrown away when they are done with him.

The Asset is just a pile of metal and misery. He doesn’t deserve anything. Not even this Captain’s pity, and certainly not his sorrow. 

So he says nothing. 

*****

Steve locks his knees, shores his spine up with rage and regret. This Bucky…isn’t his Bucky, he can see it now. As horrifying as the possibility is, the scars on his temple could be a recent addition, but the scarring of the arm, and the arm itself, are different from what he’d seen when Bucky fought him, different from the pictures and reports in Bucky’s files.

No human being deserves what has been done to him. Especially not a Bucky. This Bucky seems to have suffered even more than Steve’s Bucky, and Steve’s heart, his bones, aches for him. For them. 

_How did you get here_ , he wants to ask. _Why are you here. Where is your Steve_. _How can I help you_. So many questions ready to fall from his lips, all of them forgotten because Bucky starts to shake, violently, and curls his arms around his stomach, hunching over himself. 

“Bucky, what’s—” 

“Body shutdown in process,” Bucky says through chattering teeth. “Probable causes: mild hypothermia. Insufficient caloric intake. Insufficient hydration. Insufficient rest. Mental distress. Universe hopping effects: unknown. Recalibration: failing.” He sways on his feet and Steve rushes forward, catching him in his arms as Bucky’s knees buckle. He is freezing, even to Steve’s rain-cooled hands. “S—sorry,” Bucky slurs, head hanging down.

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, Buck.” Steve grits his teeth as he pulls one of Bucky’s arms over his shoulders and clasps him around the waist, offering all the support he can. “It’s okay, Buck, I’ll take care of you, okay?” 

No response. 

Bitter acid runs through Steve's veins, fear tangling around his ribs. He takes a deep breath and runs a quick assessment of the situation. Bucky’s core temperature is low, but high enough that he can be rapidly re-warmed without risk. “Can you walk with me? I’d like to get you a hot bath to warm your body.”

Bucky visibly tries to walk, drags a foot forward as Steve shuffles him, and then he goes limp, hanging from Steve, legs shaking. “An order,” he garbles out. “Give me. Order.”

“What?” 

Bucky’s head rolls to the side, as if he’s trying to look up to Steve’s face. He struggles and finally gives up, looking down again, his dark and tangled hair covering his face, floating with each whispered word. “Cannot disobey order.”

 _Oh Jesus_. Bucky is in shock, but an order will force him to go beyond his physical limits. 

“Fuck that,” Steve bites out. “Hang on to me.” With that, he bends his knees and entwines an arm under Bucky’s knees to lift him up. If Bucky can’t walk, Steve will carry him. To the very fires of Orodruin and beyond. Whatever Bucky needs, Steve will do for him. 

Even limp as he is, Bucky manages to curl into Steve, hiding his face on Steve’s shoulder. Steve clasps him tightly to his chest and kisses his scarred temple gently, murmuring, “It’s okay, Buck, it’s okay, I got you,” the entire way up the stairs and to his bathroom. 

For the first time since he moved out of the Tower, Steve’s glad Tony had insisted Jarvis was granted access to his house. It had felt like an intrusion, and he’d only caved in because Tony had been right—even living in Brooklyn in an old brownstone, he’s still Captain Fucking America and it’s highly likely he will eventually find himself in need of help and unable to call for it. Not to mention, Jarvis monitors— _Holy shit_. _Motherfucker_. 

“Jarvis,” Steve barks as he approaches the bathroom. “Fill the tub with hot water. I need to raise his core temperature.”

“Already done, Captain.” 

Steve glares at the disembodied voice. Indeed, the bathroom is dissolved in thick fog, the air humid and warm. He kisses Bucky’s temple again. “Almost there, Buck. It’s gonna be okay.”

Bucky doesn’t stir, doesn’t move. The only sign that he’s still alive are the short breaths rasping over Steve’s neck. Steve tightens his arms around Bucky, swallowing a sob. “I'll take care of you, Buck. Don’t worry.” Hot tears blur his vision and he clenches his teeth. Gingerly, carefully, he steps into the tub, uncaring of the uniform he’s still wearing, and bends his knees to lower them into the hot water, slow, slow, keeping Bucky cradled to his chest.

When Bucky’s skin touches the water, he convulses and scrabbles at Steve’s clothes, body going rigid, eyes wild and terrified. “No, please, no, I will behave, please, _please.”_

Sheer will to help Bucky is the only thing that keeps Steve as a functioning, solid entity, instead of imploding into the black hole that opens in his soul. What the _fuck_ had been done to him, _Jesus Fucking Christ_. _“_ Buck, it’s okay, I promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs against his ear, trying to sooth him, heart bleeding. “We just need to warm you up and I will get you out, I promise.” 

“No—” Bucky becomes still as a statue for a moment, then he goes limp again. “Doesn’t burn.” 

_Oh gods_. Closing his eyes, Steve clenches his jaw, uselessly, trying to stop crying. After swallowing hard, he kisses Bucky’s forehead and squeezes him gently. “No, Buck, of course not. Just warming you a bit so you’ll be more comfortable. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky murmurs and relaxes against Steve’s chest, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and closing his eyes. 

The tub is big enough for both of them, even with Bucky curled around Steve, sitting on his lap. The water reaches Bucky’s waist, but that’s not enough. Steve leans back and slides down, getting as much of Bucky’s body as he can under the warm water. Bucky shudders and grasps Steve’s clothes tightly, bends his legs closer to Steve’s hip, but doesn’t protest otherwise. 

Once he’s situated them as best as he can, Steve brushes his fingers over Bucky’s tangled hair, his face, his back, murmuring reassurances, a litany meant as much for Bucky as for himself. “It’s going to be okay, Buck. I’m going to take care of you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe.” 

*****

The Asset believes the Captain’s words. He seems to genuinely care about a Bucky that’s not his own. 

With a shudder, the Asset realizes…as much as he is a pile of misery and metal, he is also someone’s Bucky. 

Being Bucky. The possibility feels like magic, like sorcery. When the Asset had received his orders, his scarred Steve had looked at him and said _Bucky Bucky Bucky_ with his eyes. Steve’s eyes had spoken of rage and grief and love. 

The Asset is scarred Steve’s Bucky. 

It thunders through him, damnation and salvation twined together, something that can allow him to fly, and can also break his wings. 

Maybe the Captain carries a similar directive to his own, buried in his core. The Asset will protect any Captain Rogers, any _Steve_ , no matter what. Maybe this is a universal constant, like gravity. Steve and Bucky will always find each other, take care of each other, love each other. No matter the timeline or universe, not even death, nothing can keep them apart. 

They are all made of the same original star, broken into a million pieces, inexorably searching for their counterparts since the dawn of creation. 

Longing for Steve, _his_ Steve, _his_ Captain, his scarred face and strong hands and gravel voice cleaves the Asset open, sharp as a knife to the guts, and he gasps, clinging to this Captain’s uniform with desperate hands. 

“Steve.” The name escapes his lips without permission, and he clenches his fingers, trying to hold on to the sound, but it’s too late. 

“I’m here,” the Captain whispers against his forehead, tightening his arms around the Asset’s body, like calling him home. “I’m here, Buck. Not going anywhere.”

And he isn’t Steve, but he _is_. The Asset’s brain short-circuits, overloads, longing and sadness and exhaustion threading through his veins. The same jagged need that made him kiss his Steve in their dark cell obliterates everything else. He surges up and presses his lips to the Captain’s mouth with an animal sound, a pleading, an apology.

The universes stop for a breathless heartbeat, all of them still, quiet. 

The Asset’s heart drums in his chest. He feels like he’s falling, dying, but the Captain catches him, breathes life back into him with a kiss, groaning into the Asset’s mouth, hands grasping at his naked body with bruising desperation, the same desperation the Asset feels in his core. The Asset clasps the Captain’s uniform with what little is left of his strength, not wanting to ever let go. The Captain kisses him savagely, pressing their lips together until one of them bleeds, teeth clashing before he shoves his tongue inside the Asset’s mouth and wrenches a whimper from the depths of his throat.

The sound seems to startle the Captain. Something akin to a sob bubbles up from his chest and he rests his forehead against the Asset’s. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. 

The Asset’s mental faculties are greatly diminished at the moment, but he believes he wouldn’t understand even if he was completely functional. If his kiss was unwelcome as it appears to be, _he_ is the one who should apologize and wait for punishment. He’s not sure he’s allowed to ask for clarification, though, so he closes his eyes and stays still. Waits. 

“I’m so sorry, Buck.” The Captain’s voice is choked, the tone underlined with something the Asset believes is called regret. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

Oh. The Asset hunches more on himself, wishing to hide, but he’s curled around the Captain. He settles for hiding his face on the Captain’s shoulder. “Not your Bucky,” he whispers, sadly. Of course the Captain doesn’t want to kiss another Bucky. 

“No, you’re not.” The Captain sighs. “And you’re exhausted. I got carried away, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise. ”

The Captain’s tone is—wistful? Ashamed? Does _he_ think his kiss is unwelcome? 

More intel needed. 

“It’s alright,” the Asset says, mimicking the Captain’s standard soothing protocol, and quiets, relaxing in the strong arms still holding him. For the first time he registers the way his muscles have unclenched, knots untying all over his back and neck. He sighs, closes his eyes. He’d have liked to share this with his Steve, but he can’t. So he tries to commit every detail to memory, so he can tell him about it when he goes back. 

The water is filthy with grime, blood and dust, but the Asset knows he has had worse, way worse. And it’s warm, hot enough to melt his muscles but not to burn his skin. The Captain feels solid under him, strong thighs slightly bent to better support the Asset, the wide expanse of his chest providing even more warmth, a refuge from the horrors that lurk in the depths of the Asset’s mind. 

The Captain’s arms are not quite as thick as his Steve’s, but they are solid, roped with muscle that he can feel even under the last layer of the dark blue uniform. The inner part of the sleeves are covered in sheer panels that reveal the slopes and valleys of his biceps and triceps. Why the fuck the Captain’s uniform has all those flimsy, translucent sections is a mystery, but the Asset likes it. It allows him to feel closer to the Captain’s skin, his warmth. The way the Captain encircles the Asset in a clasp of safety and trust is so much like what he felt with his Steve, it makes his teeth ache.

Water, warm, Steve, safe. It all resolves into something that blooms in his belly and he takes a minute to find the name for: contentedness. The Asset is content. His scarred Steve’s absence is a shard lodged in his ribs, a sharp point of light piercing his soul. The mix of that already familiar pain with the knowledge that such things as contentment and safety even exist sharpen his determination to fulfill his mission and go back to Steve. 

Somehow, some way, the Asset will find a way to give him these things. 

*****

Bucky relaxes in his hold, and Steve swallows a sigh of relief. He can’t believe he took advantage of Bucky’s exhaustion and confusion and _kissed him_. 

Steve has no right. 

No matter that he needs to kiss him again as much as he needs his next breath. Probably more. He’d give up breathing altogether if it meant he’d be allowed to kiss Bucky again and again, keep him in his arms, warm and safe. 

And stewing in grimy water. Ugh. 

“Now that you’ve warmed a bit, let’s change the water, alright?” he asks gently, not wanting to spook Bucky again. “So we can get cleaned up.”

Bucky doesn’t look pleased when Steve asks him to sit in the tub by himself, he even…pouts? A little. But he obeys without question, and Steve sits in the lip of the tub behind him, to wash his hair and his back with the handheld shower. Bucky is heartbreakingly compliant the entire time, allowing Steve to move him in any way he wants to, a quiet sadness washing over his face. 

* * *

**Image** : Steve washes Bucky in the tub | **Art by** : [ursa](https://twitter.com/ursasero/)

* * *

“It’s okay, I’m gonna take real good care of you, okay?” Steve murmurs, feeling his ribs too tight to contain his feelings, the protectiveness and sorrow threatening to drown him. He makes sure to put a hand over Bucky’s forehead to avoid spilling water on his closed eyes, and barely resists kissing his upturned face. _Get it together, Rogers_. _Don’t be an asshole_. Sighing, he focuses on the task at hand. Once most of the grime is gone, he opens the drain and steps out to get off his uniform. 

He hesitates, bites his lip, looking down at Bucky. He’s huddled in the center of the tub, hugging his knees, eyes glued to Steve with something half-way between longing and sadness. Why? Steve doesn’t feel remotely prepared to get an answer for that. Instead he asks, “Is it okay if I remove my clothes?”

Bucky’s eyebrows go up in a little surprised curve, then down in a _are-you-a-dumbass_ way that’s so familiar Steve almost bends over with pain. And then it gets worse. 

“Removal of clothes is standard protocol for cleaning procedure,” Bucky rattles off in a flat voice, face gone blank and eyes empty while he recites the words. 

_Oh Jesus, oh fuck, oh all that’s unholy_. Steve takes a deep breath before he explodes in a supernova of rage and annihilates this universe and any other that can possibly exist. Clenching his jaw, trying to grind his teeth into fine powder to keep him grounded, he quickly takes everything off and stands naked beside the tub. 

Bucky looks up at him and Steve is startled for a moment by the interest lurking in Bucky’s gray-blue eyes, the flush of his cheeks, the slight part of his mouth. _He is severely impaired_ , Steve reminds himself. _He cannot consent and you’re not going to take advantage of him, Rogers_.

“Beautiful,” Bucky murmurs, almost reverently. He is not going to make this easy for Steve, is he. “I miss the scars,” he adds as if to himself in a sad sigh.

“The scars?” Steve very deliberately focuses on closing the drain and regulating the water temperature to fill the tub again. 

“My Steve has scars,” Bucky says with a shrug. “All over, but most of them on his face.”

 _My Steve_. 

Pain, sharp and blunt and hot and cold runs over Steve’s body, trampling him. He can’t keep a miserable sound from tumbling out. He sits down heavily on the floor, beside the tub, to avoid falling to his knees. “Where is he?” Is what falls from his lips while his brain spits white noise at him.

“The handlers have him.” Bucky hunches even more on himself, hiding his face under the curtain of his hair. 

Steve doesn’t even know what the fuck it is that he’s feeling. But it _hurts_ , and Bucky is hurting, and Steve can’t stand it. He steps inside to sit behind him, pulling him to his lap again. Bucky comes without protest, clings to his shoulders as he curls his body around Steve’s, and Steve hugs him tightly, whispers a kiss over his temple and stays there, lips to now warm skin. 

“I need to fulfill my mission and go back, or they’ll kill him,” he says to Steve’s chest. 

_Mission_. The word cuts Steve in half, but he finds a crumble of voice to ask, “What’s your mission?”

Steve feels Bucky go rigid in his arms, voice flat and colorless. “Mission: contact Steven Grant Rogers of Brooklyn, New York. Specific superserum version of Rogers required. When a superserumed Rogers is found, bring him back. The Asset shall not bring any other Rogers or the Asset will be punished and the Captain will be destroyed.” When he’s finished, he goes limp in Steve’s arms and Steve feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“What is a superserum?” Steve’s mouth asks dumbly. His brain went from white noise to complete shut-down, it seems. 

“Oh.” Bucky deflates another notch. “It’s a substance the handlers gave us to make us stronger. More resilient. Unbreakable,” he finishes in a whisper. 

“You’re not unbreakable, Buck.” Right now, he seems so, so fragile. So broken. And Steve is broken too, unable to process the fact that there’s more than one Bucky that ended up on Hydra’s—or its equivalent—hands. That there’s a version of himself under the same horrors. Bucky shudders, and Steve’s brain makes a valiant effort to come back online, focusing on concrete details and not on the catastrophe devastating his chest. “Do you have a deadline?”

“No. They don’t know how long it will take to find the Rogers they want.” Bucky’s gaze finds Steve’s. “You’ve never heard of the serum before.”

Steve shakes his head minutely. 

Neither of them acknowledges the unspoken truth. Bucky knows Steve is not the man he’s looking for, even though Steve hasn’t told him he was enhanced by magic being infused into his sickly body. But neither of them is ready to let the other go, not yet. _I’ll never be ready_. He doesn’t want to think about the inevitable misery that once again awaits him. 

“Where’s your Bucky?” The soft spoken question startles Steve from his thoughts.

“I don’t know.” Steve fights the impulse to close his eyes shut, to curl on himself and scream in desperation. “He was taken by—I guess the same people that took you.” And gods that _hurts_ , it flails him alive, burns him like hot pokers to the eyes. “They took him many, many years ago. I thought he was dead.” He can’t keep the tears from falling, shame and guilt turning his stomach. This Bucky suffered the same fate, but _his_ Steve didn’t abandon him. That’s the reason why Bucky’s handlers have them both, Steve knows with a certainty so deep, so strong, it borders on memory. 

It’s absurd, but he wishes he’d been captured too. Maybe then he’d be by his own Bucky’s side right now. And the world would have burned, but he doesn’t care anymore. 

“He’s not?” Bucky’s voice is quiet, almost…hopeful.

“No.” He’s been looking for Bucky for years, ever since he woke up after Bucky rescued him from the river. “He escaped from them. Saved my life. But he doesn’t want to be found.”

Bucky’s eyes widen a fraction as his lips part, and then he exhales, slowly. “Don’t give up on him.” Barely a whisper. “He’s waiting for you. I know he is. He is your Bucky.”

“Oh, Buck.” Steve chokes on a sob and cradles him closer to his chest, kisses his forehead. “I’ll never give up on him.” He closes his eyes, devastated by a primal need to take care of this sweet man, this Bucky that has been broken and twisted and is still so full of kindness and, somehow, hope. Trust. “Can I wash you?” He asks softly and Bucky nods, shivering.

“Steve washed me. Before—” he whispers, voice breaking and crashing into sadness, longing clinging to every letter. He looks down, once again hiding behind his locks. “Before I came here. Please.”

Maybe he should be jealous, but all Steve feels is sorrow and a strange sense of honor, of being granted a precious gift. If his own Bucky found himself in the hands of another Steve, he sure as hell hopes any other version of himself would take care of Bucky, protect him at all costs, do anything he asks. 

Buckys and Steves and universes. For a moment Steve doesn’t know what’s real, doesn’t know if _he_ is real. Maybe _he_ is Bucky’s scarred Steve, and what he believes to be his entire life is a product of torture, maybe the final gasps of a dying brain. 

This is trauma, he realizes as he bites back a hysterical laugh-sob. His nervous system has been stretched beyond its ability to cope with anything. 

He cannot lose his shit, however. He needs to take care of Bucky. That always comes first. So he focuses on Bucky. Lovingly, patiently, reverently, he washes every inch of his scarred body, trying to convey his love with every small touch. Because yes, he loves a specific version of Bucky, but his love belongs to this Bucky, too. To every Bucky. Steve can’t even fathom finding a Bucky and not loving him, them, with all that he is. 

Which is why, in the end—after they’re both clean and dry, after Bucky’s had some water and eaten enough to be sleepy, and they are entwined together in Steve’s bed, naked under fluffy blankets—when Bucky asks for a kiss, Steve is powerless to deny him, deny them both. 

“Kiss me?” Bucky asks, voice small. “Want to forget. Feel wanted. Loved. You can pretend I’m your Bucky,” he offers, eyes resigned, sad and at the same time hopeful, breaking Steve’s heart anew. 

“I don’t need to pretend anything, Buck.” Steve nuzzles the side of his nose, then behind his ear. “You’re precious because you are you. I love him, and I love you, too.”

Slowly, he slides his nose back over Bucky’s face, his belly clenching with anticipation, blood burning bright and sharp under his skin. “Are you sure?” he whispers over Bucky’s plush mouth, breath sliding between his parted lips. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, sweetheart. You’re tired and hurting—”

“Please.” It’s not even a sound, it’s a rumbling on Bucky’s chest, a vibration that connects his body with Steve. “Please.”

Steve closes his eyes, closes the space between them and takes Bucky’s mouth, licks into him, curls his tongue with his. Bucky is warm and whimpering, hands clutching at Steve’s naked back, pulling them impossibly closer. Kissing him feels like home, like lost memories, like a long time ago when Steve was young and brittle and had another Bucky sweet in his arms, bodies warming up and melting together like spun sugar.

Hopelessly lost in Bucky’s touch, Steve bites his plush lower lip gently and swivels to lay over him, wanting to fuse them into one being, a space where nothing hurts, where the only thing that exists is this moment. 

The first touch of their naked cocks is an electrical shock that runs up his spine and fries his brain, wrenching an obscene sound from his throat. Bucky presses his pelvis up, his weeping cock sliding against Steve’s dick, mouth open in a silent moan, and Steve hides his face in Bucky’s neck, trying to regain a semblance of lucidity. 

_Measured breath in. Measured breath out. Count to ten, to one million_. Steve’s control is hanging by a single, miserable thread, but he _will not_ fuck this up. He will cut his own dick off with a rusted saw before he even makes Bucky uncomfortable. 

Bucky is rutting up into Steve’s thigh, eyes closed, strangled breaths whispering over Steve’s ear. But Steve needs to make sure Bucky is 110% on board with what they’re doing before he allows himself to have this. 

“Tell me to stop,” he garbles into Bucky’s skin, feeling the crease of Bucky’s hip already slick with Steve’s precome. “Sweetheart. If you don’t want to take this further, please tell me to stop, Buck.”

“No.” Bucky grabs the hair at Steve’s nape and yanks his head up, bores into him with clear slate-gray eyes, his face hard with the same determination Steve saw in his face when they fought on the highway, all those years ago. He looks lethal, terrible and beautiful like an approaching storm. “ _Do not stop_.” 

And Steve goes feral. 

*****

Growling, the Captain shoves his body between the Asset’s legs, forcing his knees apart, and bites his right shoulder as he rubs his cock against the Asset’s pelvis, smearing him with his slickness. The Captain leans back and looks down at him as if he wants to devour the Asset, hunger etched in every line of his face, in the wild glint in his darkened blue eyes, in the bared teeth that soon sink into the Asset’s shoulder again. 

The Asset arches up as the bite of pain goes directly to his belly and strokes his hard cock, making it weep into the Captain’s skin. He groans, low, strangled, nails raking the Captain’s back, drawing blood as the Captain licks the bite mark. 

“Yeah, don’t hold back, I want to _hear_ you—” The Captain bites a different point, just shy of the first mark, sending sparks skittering under the Asset’s skin, and the Asset cries out, breath caught in his lungs. The Captain bites him again, and again, traversing his body like a wicked cartographer, mapping the Asset’s terrain with teeth and tongue, tracing his shoulder, neck, collarbones. Each new bite takes the Asset’s arousal higher, tightens the coil in his belly further, until the Captain palms the Asset’s cock and starts jerking him roughly. The Asset whites out, his entire body curving into a rigid arch as he comes all over the Captain’s hand, shatters into shards of sensation. 

An undefinable amount of time later he crashes back into reality with a garbled moan. His cock is pulsing, muscles clenching like rocks and he’s still hard, both hands anchoring him to the Captain’s wide shoulders. The Captain now jerks him slowly, tortuously, the slippery sound loud and obscene. 

“There you are,” the Captain says, showing his teeth in a savage smile, a predatory thing that sparkles an electrifying disquiet in the Asset’s belly, sending another wave of desire down his limbs. The Captain clasps the Asset’s face gently, but there’s an iron will behind the fingers grasping his jaw. “We are not done yet. If you want me to stop, say _Winter_ and I will. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” The Asset does not comprehend why the Captain is giving him such a word, but he understands the order and that’s all he needs. 

Hot lips clash with his and the Captain fucks his tongue into the Asset’s mouth, plundering, conquering, taking, _owning_. The Asset’s brain fizzles out, leaving behind only an empty space, soft like the Captain’s blankets, new and quiet. 

Dimly, he registers fingers sliding gently over the back of his thighs, up to his ass, to rest over his hole. “ _Yes_ ,” he moans brokenly, letting his legs fall further apart. He opens his eyes to find the Captain’s gaze on his face, and he recognizes that expression. 

_I love you_. 

Something inside the Asset breaks open, surges up like dawn over the mountains. Their love transcends time and universe and body. Fragments of the same star, forever seeking one another. 

He says _I love you_ with his eyes, while his lips beg, “Please fuck me. I want you inside me.” He turns to the side, hides his face on his bicep. “I want to know what Steve feels like inside me.” A traitorous tear escapes his closed eyes and is soon followed by others. He bites back a sob.

Motionless for a second, the Captain then rests his forehead on the Assets temple, over his scars. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, gentle. “I can do that. I love him too.” 

Astonishment makes the Asset turn to him. The Captain is smiling sadly, eyes bright with unshed tears. He brushes Bucky’s hair from his face. “We’ll figure out a way to get him out. I will help you.”

With an animal cry, the Asset pulls him down for a ferocious kiss, overcome with hunger, tenderness, and a deep sorrow. He can’t allow the Captain to get involved, can’t ruin his life. Can’t risk getting his Steve killed. But he will allow himself this, now, with this man that is not his Steve but at the same time is. This kind, brutal man who’s also missing his other half. 

“Fuck me,” he spits out to the Captain’s lips. “Please.” 

The Captain mutters a quiet curse, bites the Asset’s lower lip and turns to the side to obtain lubrication from a drawer. Once again, the Asset doesn’t know _how_ he knows this, but he suddenly knows that lubrication was the missing materiel that stopped his Steve from fucking him. Steve didn’t want to damage the Asset. 

Slippery fingers circling his hole distract him from another wave of grief. He strains under the Captain’s furnace of a body as a long, thick finger breaches him, penetrates him slowly, and he slowly loses his mind to that white cotton quiet again.

One finger, two, and the Asset’s body complies, opening up to the sweet burn that the Captain gives him. Soon it’s not enough, and he begs for more, but the Captain denies him, licks the side of his face, bites his ear, his shoulder, all the while driving him mad with his fingers, slowly pushing in and out of him. The Asset’s hands have never left the Captain’s shoulders, and he can’t avoid digging into the muscle with bruising desperation. The Captain seems to enjoy that, moaning encouragements every time the Asset applies more pressure. Smiling like an old, merciless god. 

Three fingers. The Asset is a mess of need and tears, words completely lost to him. He writhes and tries to breathe, mouth hanging open in a silent cry until the Captain crooks his fingers inside him and the Asset explodes again like a dying star, covering their stomachs in white, sticky fluid. 

As he heaves a strangled breath, the Captain is suddenly hovering over him. Palming his own dick, brushing the wet tip over the Asset’s hole. 

There’s a question in the Captain’s eyes. He is still in control of himself, even in this feral state. 

The Asset’s insides turn over, fire igniting anew in his lower belly at the display of power and will. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans and throws his head back with a soft moan as the Captain pushes inside him. The sweet burn from his fingers turns into a fiery pleasure, a sharp thing that licks up his balls and tangles around his spine. 

“Bucky,” the Captain growls, pushing in and in and _in_ , an unforgiving force of nature that drives the Asset mindless with bliss. The fullness he feels once the Captain is completely buried inside his body ravages his entire being with joy and longing. For a moment the Captain stills, closes his eyes, kisses the Asset tenderly, a chaste pressing of lips that feels like a benediction. 

“ _Fuck_ , you are so tight, feel so good, Buck.” The words rumble from his chest as the Captain starts to move, slow at first, dragging his cock almost all the way out and sinking back in with a filthy moan. “Gonna fuck you so good, sweetheart.”

“Yes. _Please_.” The Asset’s vocabulary is severely reduced as he rolls his hips up, welcoming the Captain inside himself, craving more. Of what, he doesn’t know, but he needs it. “Fuck me. Take me.”

A ruthless grin spreads over the Captain’s face as his thrusts speed up, quickly becoming brutal. He rams his hard, blood-hot length into the Asset’s asshole again and again, relentless, and the Asset is wiped clean of everything except this mind-numbing, all-consuming pleasure. The Captain fucks him incessantly, grunting a litany of praise interspersed with curses and gravely moans until he takes the Asset’s cock in his sweat-slicked hand, jerks him once, twice, slides his thumb over the swollen head, and says with steel in his voice, “Come for me.”

The Asset does not believe he has anything else to give, but his body is powerless to disobey. For the third time, the Captain wrings an orgasm from him, this time so intense he feels like he loses consciousness for a moment. He screams, arches up, loses time as he becomes pure sensation. The Captain roars above him, sinks into him with a final, savage thrust and comes, pulsing inside the Asset’s body, shaking and biting his right shoulder one last time. 

They both go limp, the Captain barely moving to the side to avoid crushing the Assert before he collapses. 

There’s silence then. It’s a good silence. A being-together silence. A quiet joy that surrounds them in a bubble, protected and safe. 

The Captain pulls him closer, cradles the Asset’s head to his shoulder, nuzzles his temple. “I love you,” he murmurs quietly. 

_My love_ , the Asset remembers. It hurts, and he can’t form the words with his voice, not until he says it to his Steve. But he traces his fingers gently over the Captain’s face, his brow, the corner of his closed eyes, down his cheek, to rest over his lips. He hopes it’s enough. The Captain sighs contentedly and kisses his fingers, so he thinks it is, indeed, enough. 

The Asset and the Captain sleep, and they both dream of a scarred Steve and a lost Bucky. 

*****

The Asset wakes up first. He is exhausted, but his body knows rest is not a luxury he can afford. His heart knows he needs to keep going. He is sure the handlers can monitor him somehow, knows they will get antsy if he stays too long in the same place and doesn’t return. 

Staying on the move will afford him some time to make a plan to get his Steve out. He will hop universes, meet as many Steves as he can. He has made his decision, however. 

The Asset will not take anyone back to his universe. 

Nobody deserves what awaits them there. The Captain is a good man. He doesn’t belong with Hydra. 

The Asset knows his own Steve is also a good man, even if Steve himself doesn’t remember that. But he is, and he will never forgive the Asset, will never forgive _himself_ if someone else is condemned to their same fate to spare Steve.

The Asset will find a way to save him. 

Silently, he gets up, ties his hair into a loose bun, gets back into his tac gear with an internal groan. The wet, dirty fabric is repulsive and cold, but there’s nothing to be done for it. The prospect of shoving all his weapons back where they belong fills him with dread. It takes him a single second to decide to leave them behind. Showing up unarmed will be a good way of building trust with the next Steve, if he’s more suspicious or less trusting than the gentle Captain. 

The next Steve will also be able to disarm him with a word. The Asset can hold his own with anyone else. There’s no good reason to make himself miserable by attaching a fucking arsenal to his body again. 

Relieved with his decision, he grabs the device and walks back to the Captain’s bedroom. He looks so sweet asleep, golden and peaceful. 

“I’m going to miss you,” he murmurs, and brushes his fingers over the fingerprint bruises on the Captain’s shoulder. Pride sweeps through him, knowing the Captain will carry his marks for a little while, and he shivers with pleasure thinking about the bite marks he’s carrying on his own body. “I wish I could stay a little longer, but I have to go.” 

*****

Steve awakes, drowsy with sated lust and contentment. Bucky is standing next to the bed, looking down at him with tender eyes. He is completely dressed. 

_No._

“Bucky, please—” Steve sits up and reaches for him, but it’s too late. 

“Find him,” Bucky says, smile sad and definitive. “He needs you.” And he is gone. 

Steve stares at the empty space Bucky left behind for a long, long time.


	3. Glittering World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was large, bigger even than the other Steves the Asset knew, and older. His hair was streaked with silver, muscular body encased in a well fitting suit. He walked like a predator, a casual confidence that the Asset recognized. This Steve was dangerous. His eyes however showed no malice as they took in the scene, only a cautious curiosity. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Steve spoke quietly. “You know my name, but I have no idea who you are or how you got into my apartment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of got away from me when I was writing. Weapon, I hope you love it. And thanks so much to all the other co-creators of this for all the encouragement and beta-ing and love. This truly is a joint project. Also please head the new tags with every chapter!

The Asset arrived to the sound of a calm voice intoning: “Security alert. Intruder detected in Mr. Rogers’ personal office. Subject is unchipped and appears dangerous.” There was a shout of alarm followed by the rushing of heavy booted feet. Blinking away the lingering effects of the jump, the rush of light and the nausea, the Asset swiftly assessed his surroundings. 

The room was an office of sorts, bookshelves lined two of the walls, floor to high ceiling. A giant desk stood in the middle, empty of anything useful as a weapon, though the chair sitting behind it could be used as a projectile if necessary. Behind him was a great expanse of windows, lights sparkling and a view like nothing the Asset had ever seen. There was no time to look however, not when the door burst open and men poured in. They were all large, carrying sleek looking guns that the Asset didn’t recognize. He crouched low, hiding behind the desk, using it as a shield. He had no idea what those weapons could do and until he had an idea of the situation he was on the defensive. 

The voice had said this was Mr. Rogers’ personal office, so it stood to reason that this was where this world’s Steve worked. But that didn’t mean much. The Asset had already met two versions of Steve and both were different from each other. He had no idea what this world’s Steve would be like. He needed more information. Unfortunately, unlike the last jump, recon was out of the question. 

There was a sharp whine and crackle. The Asset flinched and crouched deeper. Going by the sound, the strange firearms were being charged. 

“Mr. Roger requests the intruder be taken alive,” the same voice cut through the static. 

Some of the tension thrumming through the Asset’s muscles eased. Alive was good. The whining noise cut out and a sharp voice commanded, “Show yourself.”

The Asset waited. The words could easily be a trap. He had no idea what sort of universe he’d walked into. But he also needed more information and the room’s only exit was the door through which the men had entered. The window could be an escape in an emergency but without knowing what lay beneath it, it was a poor choice. 

Raising his hands, metal glinting in the light from the windows, the Asset slowly stood. Revealing himself held the best odds of survival at the moment. “I’m unarmed,” he muttered lowly. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He held no external weapon, even if he himself was one. 

There were pinpricks of light centered on his chest in an unnerving cluster. The Asset took a deep breath and tried again. “I mean no harm. I am not sure where I am. I was brought here to talk to Rogers.” 

If anything security tightened their grips. Fingers inching towards triggers. 

“Halt,” a calm voice sounded behind them. The Asset gave a shaky exhale. He knew that voice. 

“Steve,” he breathed. 

The man himself arched his eyebrows as he entered the room. He was large, bigger even than the other Steves the Asset knew, and older. His hair was streaked with silver, muscular body encased in a well fitting suit. He walked like a predator, a casual confidence that the Asset recognized. This Steve was dangerous. His eyes however showed no malice as they took in the scene, only a cautious curiosity. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Steve spoke quietly. “You know my name, but I have no idea who you are or how you got into my apartment.” 

He took another step forward and the Asset took a step back. The sound of weapons being raised echoed in the space. Steve held up a hand. “You are making my men nervous.” He tilted his head to the side, inspecting the Asset further. “Why don’t you put your hands behind your head and get on your knees for the comfort of everyone here. I’m sure no one wants a firefight.” 

From under the curtain of his hair, the Asset stared back, assessing. Then slowly he tilted his head up, made eye contact and sank to his knees.

There was a soft catch of breath, then “Bucky?” Steve’s voice was incredulous. 

The Asset felt the corner of his lip tilt up. Bucky. The last Steve had called him that too. It appeared that this Steve knew a version of him as well. For a long drawn out second nobody moved. Then, voice rough, Steve ground out, “Everybody out.” 

“Sir,” one of the men protested. “He is an unchipped intruder with some sort of augmentation. This needs to be reported.”

Steve cut him off with a look. “And he will be. But first, I wish to interrogate him myself. I assure you, I am more than capable of taking on one man. Or have you forgotten who I am?” There was a quiet threat to the words, subtle but unmistakable. 

Paling visibly, the man gave a stiff nod and ordered his men to move out. Within seconds the room was empty of everyone but Steve and the Asset. 

“Jarvis,” Steve said as the door shut. “Turn off all recordings and monitoring.”

“Sir,” this time it was the ceiling protesting. “It is my job to-” 

“Jarvis,” Steve interrupted. “Do as I say.”

“Very well.” 

Silence descended. Steve waited a few heartbeats before taking a step forward, then another. He stopped directly in front of the Asset, reaching down and running fingers along a stubbled jawline. The Asset let himself be inspected, enjoying the feel of calloused fingers on his jaw. “It really is you,” Steve’s voice held a wondering note. He flattened his palm against the Asset’s cheek. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here? You hate the upper levels. You hate me.” 

The Asset tilted his head into the hand. He blinked slowly and exhaled. Telling the truth about who he was had worked well in the last universe. Maybe it would here as well. He opened his mouth and gambled, “I am not your Bucky.” 

One eyebrow arched at his words. “I beg your pardon?”

The Asset sighed again and slowly lowered his arms to rest on his knees. “I _am_ Bucky, or I was at one time. But I am not _your_ Bucky. I’m not from this universe. I don’t even know what universe this is.”

Steve’s expression clouded, unease and distrust coloring his gaze. The Asset curled in on himself. Trying to make himself smaller, he whispered. “I am not here to harm you. I am just…” he paused, trying to figure out how to explain something he didn’t even understand. “I was sent on a mission. You aren’t the first Steve I’ve met.” His lips twisted. “It seems we are a constant in every universe.” 

“Multiple universes.” Steve looked wary. “You expect me to believe that you are from a different universe entirely.” 

“How else would I get here?” the Asset asked. “And be, what was it, unchipped? I don’t even know what that means or where this is. Just that I apparently shouldn’t be able to be here.”

Frowning, Steve moved his hand to pinch Bucky’s chin, tilting his head this way, then that. “ _Here_ is my apartment on one of the upper levels. You shouldn’t have been able to get even to the mid levels, especially not without a chip. Hell, you shouldn’t have been able to even exist down there without one.”

“And yet here I am,” the Asset replied. “And here you are.” 

“Here I am,” Steve replied tightly. He let go of the Asset’s chin and took a step back then crossed his arms over his chest. “You mentioned a mission, what was it? Who exactly sent you?” 

The Asset straightened his shoulders. The mission was slated as confidential but he’d already told the last Steve the truth. There was no Hydra in the room to punish him for failing to comply with the mission, only Steve. Staring straight ahead, he rattled off, “Hydra Mission debrief. Find other versions of Captain Steve Rogers with the superserum and bring them back to home base. Winter Soldier 2, also known as the Captain, will be held as collateral.” 

A frown marred Steve’s face. “Hydra?” He asked. “Hydra has been gone here for years. We eradicated their bases on both the Moon and Mars. I lead the sieges. I thought I was done with them.” He scowled even harder, making the Asset curl in on himself. “You mean to try to bring me back to a world with Hydra? For Hydra? That is your mission? Either you are a liar or a fool.” He glanced toward the door, as if he were contemplating calling his men back.

The Asset shook his head. “I am mission noncompliant. I have not returned with any Steves. When they finally draw me back I will be punished, my Steve, the Captain, he will be punished.” The Asset thought of the scars on his version of Steve, the screams that had echoed around the chamber when he received them. The Asset could never inflict that pain on another Steve, would never want to bring anyone else into hell. Especially now that his memories were returning. Steve was meant to be good. He wasn’t meant to belong to Hydra. He drew a shaky breath. “I will not subject anyone else to that world.”

The anger on Steve’s face smoothed out minutely. “And how can I be sure you are telling the truth?”

The Asset gave a short laugh, one that almost sounded like a sob. “What would you do? If your Bucky were tortured and brainwashed and turned into a weapon and you were sent to bring more of him back for the same treatment. Would you do it? Could you live with yourself either way? My choices are to abandon my Steve or consign the rest of you to hell with him.” He glared. “I said I meant you no harm and I was telling the truth. I made my decision.”

***

Steve stared at the man on his knees in front of him. It was incredible, mind boggling. He looked like Bucky, the Bucky Steve had abandoned years ago. The guilt ate at him, staring at a face so familiar yet so different. It was a worn face, tired and pleading, full of anguish and internal pain. It hurt to look at. His clothes were damp, musty smelling and woven of a type of fabric Steve didn’t recognize. Then there was the hand, glinting metal and bright in the light. It was like an augment from the past, long before. It was beautiful, but no one got work done without getting a skin sleeve put overtop anymore. Steve himself was proof of that.

The weak side of Steve wanted to get on his knees and wrap the other in his arms. But that was the side that led him to volunteer himself as an angry, hungry youth, allowing himself to be experimented on, changed, hardened. It was the side that had shoved Bucky down into the corners of his mind. The smarter side of him, the one that led armies into battle and fought hard, that rose high in rank and fame, that saved the world, that side was far more cautious. That side had learned the hard way not to trust. 

Still, he couldn’t help but want to believe. If what Bucky, or this apparent version of Bucky, was saying was true, the implications were staggering. Other universes, different versions of himself, different timelines. Tony would want to know immediately. Especially if this was a new threat rising. First however, first he needed more intel. 

Walking to the shelves lining the room, purposefully turning his back on the other, he grabbed a decanter of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He brought them back to his desk and filled each one two fingers deep. Swirling the glass he stared into it for a moment before finally looking back at the other.

The man was still on his knees. Still just staring at him, hopeful and hurt and downtrodden. Anyone else would have taken the opportunity of a turned back to pounce, or at the very least stand. Instead he just knelt, a perfect picture of obedient submission. It was a titillating picture, albeit inappropriate. Steve shifted on his feet and watched as the other tracked his movement but stayed quiet. 

Swearing softly to himself, Steve handed the other glass of whiskey to Bucky. “Here. I have a feeling we have a lot to discuss.” 

Bucky took the glass without hesitation. The obedience was tantalizing. Age had done nothing to diminish Bucky’s looks. Steve remembered him from his youth, or at least his own world’s version. Brash, beautiful and cocky. He’d had women flocking to him, and instead he had wanted Steve. Even back then, when Steve was nothing more than a skinny asthmatic, slowly dying down on the bottom levels. Bucky had been there, kneeling when Steve asked, pretty as a picture and grinning cockily up at him. They’d barely had enough to eat, not to mention medication, but Bucky hadn’t cared. He said Steve was all he needed. 

If he was a better man, Steve would have agreed. Would have stayed. But when scouts had come down, looking for volunteers for experimental augmentations, Steve had jumped at the chance. Bucky had begged him not to. Pleaded with him to stay, said he’d work harder, would provide for him. Steve hadn’t listened. He didn’t need to be provided for, he wanted to provide for himself. And he had. He’d done it a million times over. 

But now here he was. Standing high above the world, the upper levels, the dream. And here was Bucky, a version of him at least, on his knees like some sort of ghost come to haunt him. Steve tossed back his whiskey and poured himself another. Bucky hadn’t even taken a drink of his yet. It was irritating and yet just what Steve wanted. He wanted him to ask permission. He ran a hand through his hair and took another sip. “You can drink, you know.” 

Bucky looked up at him, meeting his eyes, before he finally lifted the glass to his mouth and took an obedient drink then set the glass down on the floor next to him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and Steve felt the bolt of lust hit him hard and deep in his belly. He frowned, even as he unconsciously leaned forward. Was this a new tactic? A way to garner trust?

Then Bucky laughed, short and mirthless. His gaze held a touch of humour though, a softening of his face in a way that made him look smaller, more fragile. His lips curved into a half smile then he uttered, “Every universe.” 

“I beg your pardon?” the words threw Steve off kilter. 

“Every universe,” Bucky repeated. “In every one so far, you’ve looked at me like that. Like you wanted to eat me alive.” He paused, as if weighing his words, then continued. “And in every one so far, you’ve done just that.”

The words glittered in the air around him, hanging ripe and waiting to be taken in and tasted.   
Seduction it was then. Steve should stop it. Should step back and call his men, refusing to be taken for a fool. But the offer was tempting. He moved to stand directly in front of the other, reaching out, his thumb brushing over Bucky’s lower lip before tugging it down. 

He was giving in, but how could he not? Everything he’d been missing in his life up in the clouds was being offered to him. His past was here, willing and obedient, just the way Steve liked his partners. It might be dangerous but Steve was also confident in his own strength. First however, he’d need to lay down some rules and get a few answers. “How many worlds have you been to?” Steve asked, curious as Bucky let his mouth fall open, tongue tracing the salt of his thumb. 

Bucky blinked lazily up at Steve, giving a tiny nip to the digit in his mouth before answering, “This is the third.”

***

Steve looked surprised at the answer the Asset gave, as if he’d expected something different. More or less, the Asset wasn’t sure. But he pulled his thumb back, dragging it down the Asset’s chin before pondering, “Three isn’t a large pool to draw data from.” He paused, gave a calculating look before adding, “Though I suppose we could create our own data if you were so inclined.”

The Asset felt himself nod before he even realized he was doing it. Obeying had been drilled into him through pain and hurt and time. This, however, was pleasure. This was Steve. 

Maybe it was foolish to so blatantly offer himself up to this version of Steve as well, but the Asset found himself doing it anyway. He didn’t know the man. Knew absolutely nothing about him except that he was a Steve, and every Steve he’d met had been both a man in charge and a good man at the core. Even when he’d been turned into a soldier like the Asset, he obeyed and he killed under duress, but with the Asset he was still kind in his own way. The last universe had only cemented it further. And here he was on his knees before yet another Steve, a place he was becoming achingly familiar with. 

The Asset felt the same coil of desire in his belly that he always felt around Steve Rogers. It didn’t matter if it was the Steve of his barely remembered youth, skinny and sickly, or the Steve in the war, a hero, or the bare wisps of the Captain beside him in a small cell, as cold and miserable as the Asset. Or the Steve of the last world, loving and sad and fierce. It was like fate had tied them together, red strings that wound out from his belly and tied him irrevocably to Steve. Desire, lust, love, hurt, anguish. He’d felt an entire gamut of emotions around the other but he always found himself coming back for more. Universe skipping technology or not.

At the agreement, Steve straightened and took a step back. He placed his whiskey back on the desk, only half empty. “Very well,” he said as he popped the button on his suit jacket then reached up to undo his tie. “Since, however, I am taking a foolish risk here and you know nothing about me, let me tell you a few things. One, I like to be obeyed. Can you follow orders?” 

The Asset gave another nod and this time Steve’s lips curled into a pleased smile. “Good. Start by stripping.” As he gave the order he removed his own jacket, carefully laying it across the desk then unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling the sleeves up. The Asset watched mesmerized as Steve’s tie joined the pile and his hands moved to his belt. “Well,” Steve arched a brow when he noticed the Asset’s staring. “I thought you said you could follow orders.” 

Hastily the Asset pulled at the straps of his tac vest then pulled it over his head. It fell to the floor in a pile and he received a sharp order of ‘Neatly.’ Picking it up, he carefully set it folded beside him before working on his shirt underneath. 

There was a soft inhalation as his shoulder was revealed, along with the full truth of his arm. The Asset could feel the other’s gaze on it, assessing. Steve said nothing, however. He merely waited until the Asset rose his feet, then continued. “The second thing you should know about me is that I’m augmented. My entire body has been amplified with top of the line experimental enhancements.” He gave a wry sort of look with the words, “If you’ve been less than honest with me or you try to harm me in any way, rest assured that you will _not_ win the resulting fight. My body is very hard to damage.” 

The Asset took a moment to digest the words as he bent down to unlace his boots. The way Steve was speaking didn’t sound like a serum. It sounded like something entirely different and he frowned to himself, wondering just what was hiding under the others clothes. In the end it didn’t make much of a difference, though. He glanced up through his lashes. Judging from the bulge in Steve’s pants everything worked as it should. The Asset gave a short nod, indicating he’d understood and went back to undressing. It would be better if it wasn’t a serum. He would have one less thing to feel guilty about in regards to disobeying. 

By the time the Asset was naked, Steve was leaning against his desk, shirt unbuttoned and belt squeezed between his fingers as he watched the show. If the Asset hadn’t had any and all shame burned out of him over the past decades, he would have blushed. As it was, he simply stood there, calm and waiting. If there was anything that the Asset knew, it was how to wait for instruction. 

“You’re not shy,” Steve commented as he finally pushed off the desk and took a step forward. He walked a slow circle around the Asset, fingers trailing over his lower back, his belly, then sliding up to his chest to tweak his left nipple. The Asset shivered but didn’t move and didn’t speak. He hadn’t been asked a question and even though Steve didn’t say he couldn’t talk, he hadn’t told him he could either. So he waited. 

“You look so much like him, or how I imagined he’d grow up to look.” Steve’s thumb brushed over the same nipple again and the Asset trembled. “Minus this, of course.” He stroked upwards, fingers tracing the scars radiating out from his metal shoulder. “Whoever did this was cruel and a butcher.” He brushed his palm lightly down the arm, feeling the way the plates whirred and flexed at the sensation. “Can you feel that?” 

Shuddering, the Asset nodded. “Pressure mostly.”

Giving him a calculating look, Steve squeezed the Asset’s metal wrist. “And if I wanted to use this?” He held up his belt, “Tie your wrists in front of you. Would you simply break free, or would you let me?”

A small tremble made the Asset’s fingers on his right hand twitch. Taking a breath, calming his pulse he asked tentatively, “Just tie them?” 

Steve’s fingers loosened immediately. Reaching up he took the Asset’s chin in his hands and ordered quietly, “Look at me.”

Meeting his eyes, the Asset wet his lips and blinked at the concern showing in Steve’s expression. “Judging by the scars littering your body, your life in your world was not an easy one. When I asked to tie you, I meant just tie. But I will tell you one final thing about me. I keep my word, always. I will not do anything to your body that you don’t want me to. If you want to get dressed and forget this experiment, we can. Or else we can continue and you can give me a safe word to get me to stop if you need it. I am not a monster. I will step back if you need me to.”

The final bit of tension bled out of the Asset’s shoulders. He remembered his own Steve’s hands on his wrists, the comfort in the way he’d held them. Then he thought about the last universe and the way the Steve there had given him a word, ordered him to use it if he needed. He held out his wrists. “Winter. If I say that, please stop.” 

Steve gave him a firm nod and looped the belt around both wrists, cinching them tight but not cutting off blood flow. “Anything else I should know before we continue? Things to avoid?”

Giving the other a calculating look, the Asset tilted his head to the side then said, “Nothing that will cause permanent injury or cause damage to my fighting ability. I don’t know what world I will end up in next and I need to be able to defend myself.”

His words were received with a flinch. “I don’t enjoy hurting my partners,” Steve lifted the bound hands in front of him to kiss both knuckles. “Only telling them what to do.” 

The feel of Steve’s lips on his skin was enough to make the heat in the Asset’s belly return with a vengeance. He took a half step forward, tilting his head up. Now that he’d been assured the direction things were going to go he was suddenly hungry for the feel of Steve’s mouth on his. He wanted it badly enough to dare voice, “May I make a request?” 

Steve eyed him seriously before replying, “You may ask.” 

It wasn’t a promise of a request being granted, but it was permission to speak at least. “Will you kiss me?” It was an intimacy that the Asset craved. He wanted Steve to kiss him, to kiss _Bucky_ , the way he used to in his half formed memories of when they were young. It was a hunger his Steve had sparked in him, a hunger his returning memories only fed.

***

Steve couldn’t help the wince that came out at the request. He’d instructed Bucky to strip, bound Bucky’s wrists, and through it all Bucky had complied beautifully. His only requests had been to not be hurt and to be kissed. It made something inside Steve want to fight another war, this time against the people that had turned this man into someone who thought gentle treatment and kissing was something he had to request. He saw the way Bucky’s eyes had shuddered at the wince, though, so he hurried to correct, leaning forward and connecting their lips in a whiskey flavoured kiss.

It took a moment for Bucky to respond, but when he did, it was as though all the tension in his body melted like butter. His spine went loose, his jaw slack. He let Steve lead the kiss without objection, but he was by no means passive. It was a beautiful mess of tongue and teeth, peppered with softer, gentler kisses. Steve wanted to devour him. 

Releasing the bound hands, Steve hauled Bucky closer, pressing his tongue against teeth, pleased when fingers tangled in his collar. He squeezed his clothed body against all the bare skin presented to him, letting his hands trace pathways over scars and muscle. One of his hands fisted into the tumble of hair bound into a loose bun and he used it to tug the other into the exact position he wanted him to deepen the kiss. As before, Bucky followed, letting himself be moved and tugged without complaint. His hips ground up into Steve and Steve could feel the hardness there. It was gratifying and a relief, to feel proof the other was enjoying this. That it wasn’t just a ploy, or trick. 

Finally, when the air was sparse, even for him, Steve pulled back. Bucky looked dazed, eyes glossy and mouth slack. “Is that what you wanted?” Steve asked with a small chuckle, dipping down to nip at the wet mouth available to him. 

Bucky whined, soft and pleading and arched into it. 

Steve groaned, deep and low. “So perfect. Look at you, sinking already. It's like you were made for me.” 

“Every version,” Bucky slurred. The praise made his eyelashes flutter. 

A bark of a laugh escaped Steve. The thought was incredulous. That this creature, this stunning broken man in front of him was from another universe and yet was still here, responding so beautifully. “Every version indeed,” Steve gave him another kiss, short and hard before pulling back. 

He carefully unwound Bucky’s fingers from his shirt then wrapped his hand around the leather of the belt hanging from his wrists. “Come,” He purred, “Since this isn’t your world, let me show it to you while I fuck you.” He paused at the desk, rummaging around in a drawer until he came up with a packet of lube. This was hardly the first time he’d fucked someone in his office, though he had a feeling this would be a different experience altogether. He slid it into his pocket and then led Bucky to the window. 

The view he led Bucky to was beautiful. It was his favourite part of living so high up. The buildings sparkled in the moonlight, glinting off steel and glass. Lights glittered brightly as vehicles weaved through traffic patterns like birds. There were people out there, others like him, the wealthy, the powerful, and those that worked for them. They could probably see into the room, see the way Steve pressed Bucky into the glass, all skin and scars. Steve didn’t care. 

It was foolish perhaps, as foolish as the rest of this endeavor. But having Bucky in his arms again, even if it wasn’t _his_ Bucky, was worth it. Worth it to have this man splayed out in front of him, to tug his arms above his head and crowd into him from behind. “Is your world anything like this?” He asked, pressing his lips to the crease where skin met metal on Bucky’s shoulder. 

Steve felt the shudder that ran through the other and smiled into his kiss. He released his grip on Bucky’s wrists, pleased when they stayed where he’d put them, high above his head. Steve could see their reflections in the window, a blurry shape of cream and silver with the shadow of him behind. It was beautiful, sparkling and shimmery around the edges, soft in a way neither of them were. Flattening his palm, Steve slid it over all the exposed skin, curling it around a sharp hip bone and tugging it back, into the curve of his pelvis. Bucky trembled in his arms as Steve pressed hard and insistent against his lower back.

* * *

**Image** : View of the City | **Art by** : [sublimepigeon](https://twitter.com/quokkapot)

* * *

***  
The Asset’s skin felt hot, too small and too big all at once. Steve was an imposing presence behind him, but he felt no fear. Instead the Asset wanted to melt into the embrace, push back for more. It reminded him of his Captain, his Steve, in the shower, the wet slick slide of his cock between his thighs, the words whispered into his skin. The memory ached like a bone reknitting. A dull pain he couldn’t ignore even as he attempted to shove it down. He’d made a decision, even if it hurt worse than a bullet wound. The more he remembered, the more he knew that if he’d brought another Steve back to his universe, his Steve would never forgive him. 

He sighed softly. There was no use ruminating on the hurt. There was a version of Steve behind him, holding him. He’d also asked the Asset a question. Dragging his attention from his own internal torment, the Asset looked out into the world. It was beautiful and strange, so different from the cold cells he was kept in or the bleak shadows and safe houses he was assigned when on a mission. This world teemed with life and energy. His breath caught as he realized the shapes flying around were vehicles, cars of a sort. A memory hit him hard. The Stark Expo. So many years ago. He whined low in his throat and pressed his forehead to the glass. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asked, lips tracing up the back of his neck. 

The Asset nodded. “It’s like a dream,” he whispered. “One I thought I’d forgotten. It’s beautiful.” He let his muscles relax and sink back into the body behind him. There was no point fixating on the pain. His past was in the past, this was the present and he planned on enjoying it for as long as he was able to before the future brought hurt rushing back. 

As always, Steve could read him. Instead of prying for more information he simply hauled the Asset closer. His hand dipped low, two fingers tracing up the Asset’s cock, feeling the slickness at the head. He gathered the fluid and smeared it downward, wrapping his hand around and tugging. 

A moan, bright and needy, fell from the Assets lips as his hips chased the sensation. 

“Ah-ah,” Steve chastised behind him. “Stand still and take what I give you.” 

Shivering, the Asset did as he was told. He willed his hips to still, his knees to support him, his hands to stay pressed into the glass above him. Through it all Steve didn’t stop his motions, jerking the Asset off with a quick, merciless pace that had him on the edge far too soon. 

“S-Steve,” he gasped. He knew intuitively that he wasn’t supposed to come, not without permission. It was an instinct he couldn’t remember where it came from, but it was there all the same. “I’m going to-”

Steve’s fingers clamped down hard at the base of his dick, squeezing tight. 

Whimpering, the Asset curled his hands into fists but otherwise stayed still. 

“So beautiful,” Steve whispered. He pulled his hand away, reaching up to tilt the Asset’s head to the side, pressing a biting kiss against his lips. “I want to fuck you, can I?” 

It was still strange being asked to do something, when throughout the hazy scraps in the Asset’s memory he had held no autonomy. He remembered the feel of the last Steve inside him, however. The heady fullness, the feeling of someone so close they were inside of him, but not hurting him. He wanted it again. “Yes,” he rasped out. “Please.”

Taking a step back, Steve placed one hand on the Assets lower back while he dug into his pocket with the other. “Lean against the glass,” he instructed, “and spread your legs wider.” 

The Asset did as he was told. Tilting against the window, he felt the cold pane of glass against his flush skin, cheek to chest to cock to thigh. It was all hot flesh and cold hardness, interjected by the burning sensation of Steve’s warm palm on his back. 

Then the hand was gone, there was the sound of something being torn, then slick fingers were spreading his ass cheeks and pressing against his hole. Breathing deep, the Asset fought the urge to push back. He needed to stay still. Another whine fell from his lips, unabashed and pleading. 

“Hush.” Steve’s other hand smoothed up the Asset’s back, resting on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Steve would take care of him. Steve always took care of him. Even when he was as brainwashed as the Asset, Steve was still looking out for him. It was a humbling thought, one that made the Asset all that more resolved in his choices. All Steves looked after him and therefore he would protect as many Steve’s as he could, even if he couldn’t protect his own. 

Panting, Bucky took one last moment to make his peace with himself, then he surrendered to the moment. He let his eyes slip close, shutting out the bright colors from outside - the vehicles, the other buildings, the people. Instead, he just focused on Steve. On the feel of Steve’s finger slowly sinking into him, wet and large. It felt strange, but good. The same as last time. The sound of his breath was loud and he could feel the dampness gathering on the glass beside his cheek. His blood felt like it was boiling, his heart rate elevated and his nerves sparking dangerously. He could feel each brush of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the drip of sweat rolling down his back. Everything was keyed up, feverish, afire. 

He ignored it, drew his attention to the sound of Steve’s breath, the slight catch as he pulled out one finger and sank in two. The Asset willed his muscles to relax into the stretch and melt into the sensations. Distantly, he heard the sound of whimpering and it took him a minute to realize it was him. 

“Already so desperate.” Steve stepped closer, nuzzling into the Assets cheek and nipping at his earlobe. “Are you ready for me?” 

The Asset nodded the best he could, cheek smearing moisture on the window. The sound of Steve’s zipper being drawn down was extraordinarily loud in the room. Anticipation sent shivers racing along the Asset’s skin as Steve pulled himself out and slicked himself up. Then he was back to crowding close, cock hot and heavy and pressed insistently against the Asset’s entrance. “Deep breath, sweetheart,” Steve murmured, one lube-sticky hand drawing the Asset into a kiss as he pushed forward and in.

* * *

**Image** : Steve behind Bucky | **Art by** : [sublimepigeon](https://twitter.com/quokkapot)

* * *

Sensations crashed over the Asset. The bright, almost burning stretch, the fullness, the feeling of being connected, of Steve _inside him_. Tears gathered on his lashes even as he smiled and arched into the push. It was all so much. 

Featherlight kisses were pressed over his cheekbone, temple and eyelid. Then Steve’s hips were drawing back, achingly slow, before sliding back forward. The leisurely drag against the Asset’s insides made his belly clench. It was too much and not enough all at once. His mouth fell open, panting, a low whining hum escaping between gasps. 

“God,” Steve breathed. “You feel so good. I’ve always wanted to know what you’d feel like against me when I was this size and not smaller than you.”

The words made the Asset clamp down and Steve’s hips stutter. “Why-” The Asset started, then stopped. 

“Why what?” Steve prompted. 

“Why -” he hiccuped at a particularly hard thrust “- haven’t you done this with him.” It was a brazen question, but the Asset wanted to know. Where was this Steve’s Bucky? 

Steve’s head fell to the Asset’s right shoulder, teeth clamping down over skin. With a start the Asset realized it was right over the bruise the last Steve had left, like he was re-claiming the Asset. It throbbed like a brand. Another tear tracked down his cheek, blurring the lights into halos. Fingers dug into his side and suddenly Steve was thrusting _hard_. 

The Asset’s hips slammed against the glass. The cold of the window on his cock made him gasp high and loud. He could feel the mess he was making as he rutted against the glass, desperate for friction on the slippery surface. Behind him Steve showed no mercy and for a long moment the Asset was sure his question would go unanswered. Then, finally, after one particularly vicious thrust that had him lifting up onto his toes, Steve paused, pinning him there. 

Panting into the Asset’s neck, Stever muttered, “He hates me. I abandoned him. I loved him, but I was selfish and I left. He refused to come with. He cut me out of his life and I retaliated by cutting him out of mine. And then you showed up.” He pressed even harder into the Asset, so deep it was as if the Asset could feel him in his throat. He was pinned like a moth on a board and all he could feel was wanted, cared for, maybe even loved. Steve bit down on his neck again, fierce and hungry. “And all I want is to keep you. If I can’t have him to love.”

The Asset felt more tears slide down his cheeks. The confession ached so deeply. He wanted to give into it, to promise he would stay. He wanted to stay connected with this Steve, listening to him, following his orders for eternity. But he also knew that somewhere in this world there was another version of him, waiting. He had to be waiting. There was no way that any version of Bucky wouldn’t be waiting for Steve. He also knew that his Steve was alone and hurting, and Bucky needed to save him. Even if he didn’t know how. Turning his head to try to capture the other in a kiss, he whispered. “Can’t. I’m not yours. Your Bucky is out there. Find him. Love him.” 

Steve met his lips and dominated the kiss, harsh and biting. “He hates me,” Steve said into the connection of their mouths. “And I deserve it.” 

“No,” the Asset panted, twisting even further. Steve let him, pulling back and out, twisting the Asset to face him. Dropping his hands to hips he picked him up without effort, shoving his back into the glass and pressing back between his thighs, thrusting deep. Letting his hands drop, the Asset took Steve’s face between his hands the best he could with the leather tying them and pressed their foreheads together. “He loves you. We were made to be together, in every universe. Find him.”

***

Bucky’s words gutted Steve. For so long he’d forced himself to forget Bucky, the memory of him, the love for him. It hurt too much to dwell upon. Then by some sort of magic or science he had Bucky back in his arms. He was buried deep inside him, but it wasn’t his Bucky. This Bucky poured love and want, but Steve was sure his own Bucky, the man he’d left behind, would want nothing to do with the man Steve had become.

All that was left of Steve was human skin and nerves mixed with technology. Was there even enough of Steve Rogers left of him to be him? Or had he burned it out with countless hours of pain, slowly replacing his parts with ones that would last for forever? Bucky spoke of love, said that Steve’s Bucky must still love him. But Steve sometimes looked in the mirror and just saw a stranger staring back. How could his Bucky love the man he’d become? He projected confidence and cold logic to the world, but inside he was dead. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a stabilizing breath. He didn’t want to dwell on the pain, not when pleasure was coursing through his veins. Thoughts on what he deserved or didn’t deserve could be stowed until later. Steve was good at shoving things down and locking them tight. 

He shifted Bucky higher in his arms, lifting him and dropping him back down onto his cock. It was a warm, wet heaven. The gears and metal beneath his synthetic ligaments and muscles worked seamlessly with his natural ones to hold the weight without strain. Steve used his hips to pin Bucky against the windows, reaching up to pull his hands away from this face and push them back over his head. It felt too much like making love to be held in such an intimate way. “Keep them there,” he murmured, kissing the other to soften the blow. 

Nodding, Bucky did as he was told, trusting Steve to hold him up with just his hips. The level of innate trust was humbling and powerful all at once. It made him throb where he was buried deep. He nipped once at Bucky’s lips, then his chin, before pulling back and making eye contact. Bucky was staring at him, eyes so glossy and shimmery, lashes wet with tears, but the sadness reflected in them was less than before. Instead they were dazed and pleasure-soaked, grey pools of want. 

Steve felt like a god. He knew that if Bucky uttered the right word he would pull back, stop. But at the moment, the way he simply gave himself over to Steve was enough to make his gut clench at the effort not to come. He didn’t want it to end. He wanted to stay here and fuck Bucky against the window until dawn. Then put him on his knees and feed him his cock between feeding him pieces of fruit and cheese. Steve wanted to ruin him. Tie him to his bed and leave him satiated and happy. And yet, he wasn’t allowed. This wasn’t his Bucky. This Bucky had a mission, and even without saying it, Steve knew he was on borrowed time. That he’d have to let him go, back to his world of pain. 

Groaning, he let his hands slide down Bucky’s arms, feeling the difference between metal and flesh, reminding himself who he was really fucking. It helped, a little. He’d do his best to make this a good memory for the other to hold onto. “Can you come like this?” He asked as he tilted his hips to aim for that spot that would make Bucky fall apart for him. “Just like this, no one touching you.” 

Bucky shook his head, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. But even as he said no with his body, his mouth opened to breathe, “Order me to.” 

Eyebrows rising, Steve ground up into him. “Very well. But not until I say.” 

Nodding frantically, Bucky squeezed around him. His dick was rubbing against the muscles in Steve’s abdomen, leaving a messy slick trail. He was dripping. Flexing, Steve let him rut against the line leading to his belly button until Bucky was all but fucking his belly. It was that thought that sent Steve over the edge. He came between one breath and the next, hands clamping down on Bucky’s ribs and holding him in place as his hips jerked and stuttered. 

When Steve finally caught his breath, Bucky was squirming against him. It was as if he was past being able to control himself and listen. He was just mindlessly fucking forward against Steve’s stomach and clenching down on Steve’s cock. Oversensitive, Steve grit his teeth and hissed, “Come for me.” 

And just like that Bucky did. It was like his strings had been jerked taut as his back arched and he came messily between them. Then the strings snapped and he was sagging forward, slumping in Steve’s arms. He was pliant and loose, barely moving.

In awe, Steve pressed a kiss to his ear and supported his weight, staying inside him as he held him close and marveled at the way he’d come apart. Maybe it was true, maybe all the Buckys in all the universes were connected. They certainly reacted the same way. Steve still remembered the way his Bucky’s eyes had gone glassy at orders, how he’d begged so prettily when he wanted Steve to fuck him. He’d never been quite that responsive, but maybe with time he would have been. Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever get to find out. But god he wanted to, now more than ever, he wanted to. 

Eventually things grew uncomfortable, and so he slowly pulled out, earning a whine for the action. Taking a step back from the window, Steve wrapped one arm around Bucky’s waist and used the other to rub his back soothingly. He trusted his body’s strength and endurance to hold Bucky without fail as he walked to the door. Pausing briefly he said, “Jarvis?” 

A moment later Jarvis replied, “Sir?” 

“Clear the apartment,” Steve ordered. “Start the shower and have some food delivered. I am going to take care of our guest.” 

“Sir,” Jarvis replied. “Should I not report the intruder? Mr. Stark at the very least will want to know if you are harbouring a fugitive. If anyone should find out...” 

Steve groaned. Bucky was stirring. “In the morning, Jarvis. Tell Tony I have important information for him in the morning. But until then not a word.” 

“Very well, sir.” There was a tiny pause, then, “The apartment is now empty. Shall I erase this conversation from my memory banks?”

Sighing in relief, Steve breathed out, “Yes. Thank you Jarvis.” 

“Of course,” the AI replied. 

Shifting Bucky in his arms, making the other stir, Steve whispered, “Hush, I’m going to go get you cleaned up. Just rest.” He opened the door and strode down the hall to his bedroom. 

The room was large and open, the same views of the city spilling through. Placing Bucky on the bed, Steve sat beside him and ran a comforting hand over his skin while Bucky’s consciousness slowly rose back to the surface. It was mesmerizing to watch, the way clarity came with the blinking of eyes and a sleepy smile. Once he was more awake Steve would get him some water and food, but he didn’t want to leave him alone like this. 

Leaning down, Steve gave Bucky a soft gentle kiss as eyes finally opened and met him. “Welcome back,” he said. 

Bucky opened his mouth to say something but Steve shook his head. “I’m just going to go get you some water okay? And some snacks. Then we can talk. Are you going to be fine if I leave you for a few minutes?”

The expression on Bucky’s face went from open to confused. A frown line appeared between his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked raspily. 

Steve felt his hardened heart crack even further. Steve liked to control things, he liked to command every aspect of his life, including sex. But he also took care of his partners. He had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that the way Bucky obeyed had meant that he’d taken part in this type of play before. But like everything else, there was this final shard of information that indicated that play or not, he’d seemingly never had someone take the time to give him the proper aftercare. 

He should explain, but explaining meant delving deeper into why Bucky didn’t know. And while Steve desperately wanted to know what had happened to this version of Bucky, he was also afraid. He was so very afraid of knowing so many things. It made him a coward, he knew that. But knowing meant facing things he wasn’t sure he was ready or would ever be ready to face. Things like what had happened to the Bucky he’d left behind all those years ago. What if this world’s Bucky had suffered like the one in front of him? And Steve, heart sore and oh so stubborn, hadn’t been there for him. The what-ifs were driving him insane. He’d pushed it all down for so long and now it was just bubbling lava, soot and ash. 

Brushing his fingers through Bucky’s hair, he ignored the question and murmured, “I’ll be back, then.”

***

The Asset watched Steve walk away with a strange feeling in his chest he didn’t know how to explain. The feel of Steve’s fingers in his hair had felt like heaven, but seeing him walk away hurt. It didn’t make sense. The Asset knew that Steve was coming back, he had said he would.

 _What if he lied,_ an insidious thought crept through. 

_He wouldn’t_ , another voice answered. The Asset startled. The voice in his head was his voice, but it wasn’t him speaking. He frowned, panic and dread creeping in. 

_It’s just me, you great lummox,_ the voice continued. _Bucky. The original inhabitant of this body._

The Asset let out a low confused whine, curling deeper into the blankets. He knew who Bucky was, he’d been Bucky. He had some memories of that life, the life with Steve back before… everything he couldn’t remember. But that was him. Or it used to be. How was he speaking to himself?

_You don’t remember,_ the voice said in his mind. _You shoved me down deep to protect me and you became the Asset. Now you’re feeling safe and some of our memories are coming back. So I’m coming back, too. But we’re different people. So the way I figure, we both cohabitate in this body. I’ll protect you and you protect me. We both protect our Stevie, okay? Whatever version of him we’re with. Geez. Multiple universes. That's something else. ___

__Another low whine caught in the Asset’s throat. It hurt to think of. It was too much. Panicking, he buried his face in the pillow, body shaking._ _

__“Hey, Hey.” For a second the Asset thought the words were the voice again. But then a warm palm was sliding up his back and he was gently being tugged over. Steve had come back._ _

___Told you,_ the voice said smugly. The Asset ignored it. _ _

__“You alright, sweetheart?” Steve asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.” He cursed softly. “I shouldn’t have left you. But I’m back now. Why don’t you sit up.” He carefully propped the Asset up and handed him a bottle of water. “Drink that, then we are going to clean you up and get some food into you.”_ _

__The Asset dutifully took the water and took a sip, then another. He was thirstier then he’d thought. Soon enough the entire bottle was gone and Steve was looking at him like he had accomplished an important mission. Steve took the empty bottle from him and then he was asking, “Is it okay if I clean you off?”_ _

__For a second the Asset froze, visions of getting hosed down with icy cold water flooding his memory._ _

___He’s holding a cloth,_ the voice, _Bucky _, said in his head and the Asset felt himself relax as he noticed it was true. He gave a nod and let his body be manipulated until he turned onto his side, wet towel sliding over his belly then down between his legs. Steve was so gentle. The feeling of being washed by him was slowly becoming a favourite sensation of the Asset, from the shower with his Steve, to the tub in the last world to now, sleepy and sex drunk and hand washed.___ _

____Exhaustion tugged at his eyes. He was so tired. “Not yet,” Steve’s voice interrupted him as he felt his eyelids slide shut. “First, some food. I can’t imagine what universe hopping does to one’s metabolism but I imagine you need energy.” His voice was wry and still slightly disbelieving. “Be a good boy and sit back up.”_ _ _ _

____Arms wrapped around his shoulders and once more hauled the Asset upright. “Open up,” Steve prompted, and when the Asset opened his mouth, something sweet and tangy was pressed onto his tongue. The flavour was almost overwhelming, so rich and tart. _Strawberry,_ Bucky told him. _ _ _ _

____The Asset chewed the fruit slowly, letting the sensations rush through him. It was a far cry from the nutritional paste he was fed back at the Hydra base. This was far better, a decadence he didn’t know how to process._ _ _ _

_____Just enjoy it,_ Bucky piped up in his mind. _I sure am._ The voice was still strange, but the sleepier he got the more the Asset began to accept. It was almost nice, having someone else there inside his head, helping him, someone who understood. It was almost as nice as being hand fed. He opened his mouth as Steve gave him another strawberry. Then another. Then something richer, darker and bittersweet. He barely had time to wonder what it was before Bucky was answering with, _Chocolate.__ _ _ _

____A soft moan slipped from the Asset’s tongue at the taste. Steve chuckled softly and fed him another piece. Over and over he was given bites of food, most of them sweet, some savory, things Bucky identified for him._ _ _ _

____Finally, when he’d eaten so much he felt like he was going to burst, Steve pressed a kiss to his lips and then stood. The Asset watched half awake as Steve undressed, quick and efficient and neat. Pants were folded and placed on the dresser, underwear to follow. His shirt was hung up and put into the closet and then he was back, sliding under the covers and hauling the Asset close._ _ _ _

____Part of the Asset wanted to stay awake, wanted to trace all the skin that had been hidden from him. He wanted to explore the contours of this Steve, find the differences. But exhaustion was clawing at his consciousness and he felt himself sliding towards sleep._ _ _ _

____***  
Morning came with the sun shining onto the city in a sparkling display of glass and metal. Like any other morning, Steve woke with the dawn. Unlike any other morning, there was a body curled over his chest, warm and perfect. It hadn’t been a dream. Steve felt his chest ache at the knowledge. _ _ _ _

____The night before had been real, as unbelievable as it was. Waking up with Bucky draped across him was a fantasy Steve hadn’t let himself have in years. Just waking up with someone beside him wasn’t something Steve had let himself have in a long time. He rarely brought his playthings home. Once in a while he would let someone into his apartment, into his office perhaps or his living spaces, but never his bedroom and they never stayed. He wasn’t cruel, he took the appropriate time for aftercare and he made sure his guests left happy, but they always left. There were rules and he made sure everyone he fucked signed a contract outlining them beforehand._ _ _ _

____Steve hadn’t even contemplated the idea of a contract the night before. He had broken each and every one one of his carefully laid out rules, starting with a lack of background check and ending with tucking his partner into his bed. But it was _Bucky_ , and Bucky was why the rules existed in the first place, so he didn’t let himself want things he couldn’t have._ _ _ _

____Taking a shuddering breath, Steve slowly inched his way out from underneath Bucky. He left him tucked under the sheets as he moved to clean himself up in the washroom, then pulled on a pair of comfortable pants and walked down the hall to the kitchen. He would make some breakfast, have some coffee and strategize a way to make Bucky stay._ _ _ _

____By the time Steve had a plate of fluffy waffles piled high, he still hadn’t come up with an answer. He’d thought of a hundred different scenarios, ranging from locking Bucky here (a thought that had made him hate himself that much more) to going back to Bucky’s world and fighting Hydra there. But Steve had responsibilities here in his own world. He was a protector here, he owed this world his loyalty. Nothing he thought of worked, and with a sinking feeling he realized he might have to let the Bucky cozied up in his bed go._ _ _ _

____With a heavy heart, Steve placed the waffles on a tray with syrup, fresh fruit, cream and coffee. Picking it up, he returned to his bedroom. Setting the tray on the foot of the bed he bent over and, unable to help himself, pressed a deep and desperate kiss to Bucky’s lips._ _ _ _

____Bucky woke up with a start, metal arm whipping out and almost hitting Steve in the chest. He caught it instinctively, shock filtering through him at the sheer strength behind the swing. There was a possibility he’d been mistaken the night before when he’d been so confident in his own ability to protect himself. The metal arm wasn’t just fast, there was power in the body behind it. He raised an eyebrow as awareness seeped into Bucky’s gaze and he sheepishly relaxed._ _ _ _

____“You are stronger than you look,” Steve commented, inspecting the metal wrist in his grasp. “You could have fought me last night if you wanted to.”_ _ _ _

____Bucky winced and flushed slightly. “I was created to be a weapon.”_ _ _ _

____Steve stared at him for a long moment, reading the naked truth in Bucky’s eyes. Just as he’d said, there was no desire to harm there. Pressing a kiss to the metal fingers, he decided to let it go. “I made us breakfast,” he said, changing the subject. “Are you hungry?”_ _ _ _

____Nodding, Bucky sat up. In the light of day his scars were even more visible. Ropes of white trailing from his shoulder, puckered knots on one side that spoke of a bullet wound. Then there were the other marks that Steve could only guess at the source of, like the spider webbing on his temple and the myriad of nicks and slashes that intersected his torso. His body was a tapestry of hurt. Resisting the urge to reach out, to trace each one, Steve instead sat back and grabbed the tray. He put it on the bed beside him and asked quietly, “Can I feed you?”_ _ _ _

____Bucky opened his mouth without hesitation. The primal, dominant side of Steve preened at the easy acquiescence. Tearing off a piece of a waffle, he used his fingers to dip it in syrup then placed the sticky mess on Bucky’s tongue._ _ _ _

____At the first taste, Bucky sighed in obvious pleasure. He chewed slow and methodically before swallowing and leaning forward to lick the syrup from Steve’s fingers. Steve groaned. Last night feeding Bucky had been more about the aftercare. Now it held a far more sexual overtone. Encouraged at the sound of Steve’s pleasure, Bucky went from licking to sucking on two fingers. Hissing, Steve drew them back and reached for another piece. He was already hard in his sweatpants, and if he let Bucky continue, he’d be using his mouth for things other than eating._ _ _ _

____“Food first,” Steve admonished gently as he placed another bit of waffle in Bucky’s waiting mouth._ _ _ _

____An almost-smile curved at Bucky’s lips as he took the waffle and dutifully chewed it. He waited patiently for each bite, daring to give small kittenish licks to fingers as he went. Half a waffle later Steve couldn’t handle it anymore. He shoved the tray aside and straddled Bucky’s legs, pushing him down into the sheets with a hand on his chest. Bucky went willingly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated._ _ _ _

____“Look at you,” Steve purred. He shifted further up, knees caging Bucky’s chest. “So hungry for it you can’t resist.” He placed his fingers back to Bucky’s mouth, watching as he sucked them down without hesitation. Gaze hot, Steve stroked Bucky’s tongue with the pads of his fingers before beginning to thrust them in and out in a lazy pattern. “I want to feed you my dick,” he confessed, “Make you suck on it, fuck your face. Would you let me?”_ _ _ _

____For several drawn out seconds Bucky only frowned, brows drawn in confusion as his lips went slack around the fingers in his mouth. Gently tugging his hand free, Steve wondered if he’d pushed too far. He’d played games like this with his Bucky in their youth, but that was a different Bucky, one far less broken. Shifting, he was about to retract his statement, get off and apologize when Bucky reached forward and rested his hands on Steve’s thighs._ _ _ _

____Eyes wide, he croaked out, “Please.”_ _ _ _

____Steve groaned deeply, the composure he was so proud of slipping through his fingers. Lifting up slightly, he shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. He should probably slow down, think things through, but he was past the point of caring. How could he resist when Bucky was under him, mouth slack and so trusting._ _ _ _

____Shuffling even higher up Bucky’s body, Steve tucked his knees underneath Bucky’s shoulders, propping him up and reached to tuck another pillow under his head. Then he slowly let some of his weight sink down. “Too heavy?” he asked, breathless at the sight underneath him._ _ _ _

____Bucky shook his head and let his mouth fall further open. Steve shuddered, one hand going to hold the back of Bucky’s head, the other holding his cock and guiding it to Bucky’s mouth. The sight alone was almost enough to make him come._ _ _ _

____Drawing a deep breath, he grit his teeth and willed himself to hold back as he slowly traced his dick over plush lips. Steve wanted to ruin Bucky so badly. He wanted to choke him with his cock and slap him in the face with it. He took another breath and tilted his hips forward, letting the head of his cock smear precome over Bucky’s cheek. He was so beautiful like this, so open and pliant. Unable to resist, Steve lifted his dick and let it smack one cheek, wet and sticky._ _ _ _

____“Look at you,” Steve groaned. “Taking whatever I want to give you.” He tugged his hips back until his cock rested back on Bucky’s lips. “Open up for me, sweetheart. Let me in.”_ _ _ _

____Jaw relaxing, Bucky did exactly as he was told and Steve slid in without resistance._ _ _ _

____Bucky’s mouth was hot and silky smooth. With a grunt, Steve let go of his cock and moved his hand to feel along the seam of where Bucky’s lips wrapped around him. He dipped his thumb in, gathering saliva and smearing it over his chin before moving both hands to grasp Bucky’s face and use the grip to hold him still as he thrust._ _ _ _

____The first time Steve went deep Bucky choked, eyes widening in alarm. Slowing his movement, Steve ground out, “Relax your throat and breathe through your nose. You are doing so well, darling. Just like that.” And just like before, Bucky obeyed without question._ _ _ _

____Steve’s tenuous control snapped. He held Bucky’s face in a firmer grip, thumbs tracing his cheekbones once before gripping tight. “Deep breath,” he ordered as he began to move in earnest, chasing his orgasm. It wouldn’t take long. He was wound too tight. Especially with the way Bucky was looking at him, trusting eyes leaking tears at a particularly hard assault on his throat. Sure enough, less than a dozen thrusts later Steve felt the rush of his impending release. He jerked his hips back, grabbing his dick and using his hand for the final few strokes._ _ _ _

____Come splattered over Bucky’s face in a messy, debauched display. Panting harshly, Steve reached a shaky hand out to rub his thumb through the mess. He almost wished Jarvis was recording so Steve could come back and watch the moment over and over again. The thought of anyone else possibly seeing it however made his possessive side flare. Bucky was stunningly beautiful like this, come-streaked face soft and dazed, and Steve wanted to keep him all to himself._ _ _ _

____He sat there for several long minutes, softening cock resting against Bucky’s chin while he ran fingers through the mess, absently feeding some of it to Bucky. Through it all, Bucky laid pliant and needy, opening his mouth when it was tapped and sucking when directed. Steve could have stayed like that for hours, but he could feel the tension in the body beneath him, the urge to move betrayed by the desperate tension in the hands gripping his thigh._ _ _ _

____Eventually he took pity and shifted backwards until he was straddling Bucky’s hips. He pressed a kiss to a wet nose and rocked back until he could feel the hardness resting against his ass. He sunk further onto Bucky’s cock, teasing him as he leant down to lick away the remnants of his own seed. Underneath him Bucky whined and tried to arch his hips. Steve chuckled, amusement and pleasure coursing through him as he ordered, “Say please and I’ll let you rut off on me.”_ _ _ _

____“Please,” Bucky gasped. Grinning, Steve slid off and removed his sweatpants entirely, laying back down on top of Bucky and letting his cock rest in the groove of Steve’s hip. Bucky squirmed underneath him but obediently didn’t move until Steve urged, pleased and proud, “Go on then.”_ _ _ _

____Bucky did as instructed, hips instantly jerking and fingers frantically scrambling to hold onto Steve’s hips. His movements were frenzied and desperate as tried to gain friction. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please. Can I come?”_ _ _ _

____Steve kissed him hard and deep, thrusting his tongue in and out with the rhythm of Bucky’s cock sliding against his hip. He kept it up until Bucky was whining incoherently under him, movements losing all semblance of rhythm. Then Steve finally whispered, “Now.” And Bucky fell apart, back arching, eyes squeezing shut._ _ _ _

____For several long, drawn out moments there was only the sound breathless panting interspersed with slick kisses and sticky slide of sweat-soaked skin rubbing together. Steve lost himself in the sensation, forgetting everything but Bucky in his arms, satiated and shaking._ _ _ _

____“Sir,” Jarvis’ voice shattered the peace. “Mr. Stark has sent an inquiry about your location.”_ _ _ _

____Steve cursed creatively and lifted himself up slightly. “Tell him I am busy.”_ _ _ _

____“Unfortunately sir,” The A.I. intoned, “You had a meeting with him at 0700 this morning and when you did not arrive he asked me for your whereabouts. I have informed him that you are home and he is on his way. He will be here in approximately 30 minutes.”_ _ _ _

____“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck. Fuck. Jarvis, can you delay him?” Underneath him Bucky was still, eyes wide._ _ _ _

____“As you’re aware sir, Mr. Stark is difficult to deter and as he is my creator I cannot disobey him.”_ _ _ _

____“And does he know about my guest?” Steve asked as he slowly sat up further, running one calming hand down Bucky’s chest in the process._ _ _ _

____“Currently I have kept the news of your guest a secret, but should he ask I will be obligated to tell him.”_ _ _ _

____Swearing again, Steve shifted to the side. He rubbed a hand over his face. “The statistical probability of him freaking out when he gets here?”_ _ _ _

____“Very high, sir,” Jarvis replied._ _ _ _

____“Right,” Steve muttered. “Well, I guess it’s time to face the music.” He looked down at Bucky who was still staring at him - wide eyed and cautious. Steve wanted to fall back into him, kiss him breathless then fuck him mindless all over again. Instead, Tony was on his way over and he would spend the next few days interrogating Bucky the way Steve should have. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Tony will have questions for you. I don’t know what will happen beyond that, but I will make sure he won’t harm you.”_ _ _ _

____A thousand emotions played over Bucky’s face before finally settling on disconcertingly blank. He shook his head, and sat up. Giving Steve an empty look, he carefully used the sheet to wipe up his stomach before stifling sliding out of bed. “He won’t have questions,” Bucky said softly. “At least not for me. I won’t be here when he arrives.”_ _ _ _

____“No!” Steve spat vehemently as he scrambled to stand beside Bucky. “There has to be another way.” He reached out to snag Bucky’s wrist, tugging him forward. ”You can stay. It’s safer, even if you are questioned. We can get you chipped, make you legal.”_ _ _ _

____A small sad smile twisted Bucky’s lips but he let himself be pulled. Stepping forward, he rested his head against Steve’s chest and in a quiet tone answered, “I can’t stay. I have my own Steve to go back to. I can’t leave him alone.”_ _ _ _

____“If you go back without another version of me you will be punished! They’ll kill you!” Steve argued furiously._ _ _ _

____Bucky nodded into Steve’s skin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said softly._ _ _ _

____Steve crushed Bucky to his chest. “Please,” he whispered._ _ _ _

____“No,” Bucky repeated. When he looked up his eyes were wet but resolute. “You have your own Bucky to find, this world’s version of me. Find him. Please. Find him and forgive him and yourself. Take care of him. Promise me.”_ _ _ _

____This time it was Steve shaking his head. “Why, why him? Why not you?”_ _ _ _

____“Because you love him,” Bucky whispered. “And you belong with him. And I belong to my universe’s Steve above all others. He needs me.” ”_ _ _ _

____“I could belong with you! You could belong to me. I’d take care of you.” Steve dug his fingers into Bucky’s back as he pleaded. He finally had a Bucky in his arms, and had held him, cared for him. He couldn’t bear to let that go now. ._ _ _ _

____“I know.” Bucky gave him a tremulous smile. “And that’s why I have to go. Because I have to protect my own Steve. Just like you need to protect your own Bucky. Promise me you will do it.”_ _ _ _

____Swallowing hard, Steve shook his head. He couldn’t._ _ _ _

____“Please,” Bucky whispered again, harder this time._ _ _ _

____Pain speared through Steve’s chest. He swore again, harsh and raspy. He should have never taken part in any of the activities of the last 12 hours. He should have reported Bucky when he showed up the night before. He should have protected himself so he didn’t have to feel like this again, this all consuming pain that only Bucky could ever create._ _ _ _

____“You are abandoning me again,” he grit between clenched teeth, suddenly incensed._ _ _ _

____Wincing, Bucky shook his head and squirmed out of Steve’s crushing embrace. “You aren’t mine to abandon. My version of you is in a cell, waiting for death. Should I leave him to protect you? Is that what sort of man you are?”_ _ _ _

____The anger left Steve in a rush and he sat on the edge of the bed in a defeated slump. “Very well,” he spat out, chest aching and eyes stinging in a way he’d forgotten they could. He took a few seconds to just breathe, rubbing his face and sighing deeply. Bucky was right, Steve knew he was, but he didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to admit that it would be so easy for him to be exactly the man Bucky had just accused him of being. After all, he’d been that man once. He said Bucky had abandoned him, and maybe that was true, but Steve had left first._ _ _ _

____Straightening his shoulders, Steve knew he couldn’t fail another Bucky. He wearily got to his feet. “At least let me pack you things to take with you,” he rasped.”Give you some clothes, some food, anything I can. Please.” He couldn’t look Bucky in the eye._ _ _ _

____For several seconds there was silence, just the sound of heavy breathing and the knowledge that this was the end. Then Bucky looked to the door and said, “I need my gear.”_ _ _ _

____“I’ll get it.” Steve said, “But first,” he turned to go to the closet and pulled out some warm, soft clothes. “Put these on. Your gear was wet when you got here. I should have hung it up for you last night. I’ll get a bag to put your gear into. And some food. Just...” He closed his eyes and breathed deep. “The bathroom is right there. Clean up, eat some more. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He shoved the clothes into Bucky’s arms, turned and walked out of the room, the line of his shoulders tight with stress._ _ _ _

______ _ _

***

The Asset watched Steve go, with a pain deep in his chest. It felt like someone was ripping out a piece of him and placing it on the floor to be trampled on. Breathing hurt, but he forced himself to do it as he mechanically got dressed. His hands were shaking, he noticed absently, still wired from the orgasm, the kisses.

The morning had begun in a bubble of pleasure, the slick wet feel of Steve’s mouth on his. The Asset had felt wanted, owned and used in a way he could barely articulate. He’d always been a weapon, but pressed into the sheets under Steve he’d felt like a treasure used solely for good. It hurt to wake up from the dream. And it _was_ a dream, one that would be so easy to give in to, to fall into this life of obedience and blissful sensation. This wasn’t his world though and he had no idea if he would even be allowed to stay or if his handlers could haul him back at any moment - or worse, follow him into this world or the next. 

Leaving was the best solution. The Asset had assessed the options and he knew it was the right choice. He had his Captain to save, his own Steve. He had to remember that, not get lost in wanting to stay. He had to go back to his world eventually. There was no avoiding that. 

Clenching his hands, he hugged the clothes he’d been given to his chest. They were soft and smelled like Steve and it made the Asset want to curl into the scent and stay. He whined soft and quiet into the fabric, then pulled it away. He needed to stop giving himself reasons to remain when he knew he had to leave. He had to leave and give this Steve a chance to find his Bucky and be happy. He deserved a Bucky less broken, one that was whole and not a weapon with voices in his head. 

The voice, _Bucky,_ had been mostly quiet all morning. When he’d woken the Asset had thought maybe the voice had been a figment of his imagination. But then, when the Asset had been unsure about the idea of taking Steve’s cock into his mouth, visions of feeding tubes being shoved down his throat flooding his mind, Bucky had sent him an image of himself on his knees in a forest. Steve had been in front of him with pants around his ankles, cold air swirling while Bucky enthusiastically sucked Steve’s cock. _Trust me,_ Bucky had said, _its a good memory. You will like it. We will like it._. 

The Asset _had_ enjoyed it - the taste, the smell, the act of willingly giving himself over without being forced first. He licked his lips, tongue tracing the vestigial salt of Steve from his lips. Shuddering, he hugged the clothes tighter. He should clean up, wash his face at the very least. 

Bringing the clothes with him, he walked to the bathroom. With sharp, jerky movements he placed the clothing on the counter and turned on the tap. Carefully not looking in the mirror, the Asset scrubbed his hands, metal and flesh, then splashed water on his face. He was scared to look at his reflection. He wasn’t sure he would recognize the face that stared back. 

_Look,_ Bucky’s voice whispered. The Asset flinched. He’d hoped the memory this morning had just been a fluke. That the voice was just a figment of his sex addled brain considering that was when Bucky seemed to like to appear. 

Standing there, the Asset had the strangest sensation of his eyebrow lifting without him choosing to do so. _I’m real,_ Bucky said in his head. _As real as you. You accepted me well enough last night_. 

“I-” The Asset started to speak out loud then stopped. Was he going crazy? Was he Bucky? Was he the Asset? Something in between? He couldn't remember much, but having two voices in his head didn’t seem sane. 

The Asset felt more than heard Bucky shrug in his head. _Do we need to be sane?_

Frowning harder, the Asset finally looked at himself in the mirror. The face staring back was familiar and strange all at once. It was the face of the Asset, but underneath it, under the scars and the weariness, Bucky was there too. The Asset didn’t know who or what he was anymore. Whatever he was though, it was becoming clear that he wasn’t alone. There were two minds in the body in the reflection, two minds inhabiting the same space. The Asset and Bucky... _Them._

With shaking hands the Asset, turned on the tap and splashed water on his face. He used a towel to wipe the come off his stomach and thighs. Then, slowly, he dressed. What, _who_ he was could be dealt with another day. First he had to leave this world and this Steve behind. 

Snuggling deep into the soft fabric of Steve’s clothes, the Asset slowly willed his feet to move back to the bedroom. 

Steve was already there, waiting for him, expression grim. He held a backpack in his hands, staring at it as though it might bite him. When the Asset got close he shoved it toward him, scowling. Gone was the confident man of before, the one who had ordered the Asset to his knees with confidence and strength. In his place was a broken shell of a person. The Asset’s heart ached at the sight, but he knew this Steve wasn’t his to fix. 

Taking the bag gingerly, The Asset looked through it wordlessly until he found the transmitter. Small and incoulous, it held so much power. Palming it, the Asset took one last step forward and brushed a kiss across Steve’s frowning lips. “Find him,” he whispered, feeling Bucky echo the sentiment in his heart. “Don’t be alone.” 

Steve’s scowl crumpled, shoulders slumping, but he nodded. 

It wasn’t the promise the Asset wanted, but he knew instinctively it was the best he would get. Closing his eyes, he pressed the button and felt the world disappear beneath his feet.


	4. He's all that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset has been trained not to give up. Or more specifically, never to give a report that would earn him a punishment. Failure is not in his nature — except for the fact that he is currently trying very hard to fail at Hydra’s mission. As for the part of him that is Bucky, well, Bucky’s not a quitter, oh boy, no he ain’t.
> 
> So one failed tailing and a disastrous cookie and coffee order are not going to deter the Winter Soldier, the fist of fucking Hydra, the Asset. Nope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated month-long conceptual birthday Wep 😘
> 
> This chapter is the final collab between [Elk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkane/profile) and [Alpaca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/profoundalpacakitten/profile).
> 
> Thanks to the TSTM server, you invited us there wep, you and pije and scramblie and brokie and I feel at home so much, so this is my thanks: Bucky and the Captain, finally finding a home.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter, it's just ten tropes stacked under a trenchcoat.

The Asset has now jumped a sufficient amount of times to know that he should expect anything from the brand new world he’s arrived in. He’s thought this through and made himself a list, a plan, even though plans are supposed to be the Captain’s forte and not his. At this point in his travels, that long-asleep part of him that calls itself Bucky is like a constant buzz in his head, providing a running commentary on what he does, what he feels, half critic and half support. Each singular Steve he’s met has given the Bucky part of him more and more strength, so much so that the Asset doesn’t feel so alone in his head anymore.

It’s a relief, really, because the Asset knows there are two types of quiet. There’s the calm, intense quiet of the Captain, his own Steve that he left behind, whose silences are populated with the subtle rustling of his uniform, who mumbles the mission parameters, who taps his fingers or feet delicately to communicate in Morse code, his soft footfalls just as faint as the Asset’s when he walks. This is the comforting quiet that was ripped from him when he jumped the first time.

And then there’s the quiet the Asset hates, because it’s an absolute silence like velvet padding in his head, muffling and dampening everything. He felt it right after the first jump, when Bucky still hadn’t surged up from the ether, just like he’d felt it each time the Captain was put to sleep in the ice. He could hear the empty echoing walls of his own head. The Asset hated that, for all that he could hate anything.

But now he — they, really — aren't alone, the Asset has Bucky and Bucky has the Asset, and together they can face this new universe. Find another Steve, hope he doesn't have a Bucky. And then…

They don't want to think about the mission.

Before jumping, while Steve had still been packing the bag for them, they had settled on a plan. Because getting flagged by security hadn’t been great, and staying for days in freezing rain was not something they wanted to repeat.

So they settled on a plan and have been working on it since the first second they set foot in this universe, armed only with a backpack that will last him maybe three days and a much livelier inner voice. The plan would be as such:

Find this universe’s Steve. Do not approach — this isn’t really against orders, he just needs to do recon.

Find means of subsistence until the Asset can function and enact the plan.

Find this universe’s Bucky, so that whatever happens upon contact with Steve, he can get them in touch with each other.

If no Bucky then…

That's about as far as the plan goes. They don't really want to think about the mission — bringing a Steve back to Hydra — because they have been committed to mission failure for a while now, and mission failure means punishment. The Asset is flying blind trying to reset the mission parameters, and at the same time he feels like any new plan is doomed to fail. A foreboding sense that there will be payback, somewhere.

As soon as they crossed into this new world, the Asset went to work on understanding this new universe, helped by Bucky, who was much more of a civilian and thus better equipped to understand people. Then, the Asset enacted their fledgling plan.

In the months or so that he’s been in this world, the Asset has raided the local mob and accrued weapons, money, an apartment that he cleaned with bleach until the smell of crack disappeared, and subsequently, an army of mobster enemies that he regularly has to dispatch.

He’d also done recon and found this universe’s Steve, which was… a strange experience, to say the least. He looked so different from his own Captain, his Steve, and all the other Steves, that he’d had to double check that Bucky wasn’t making up things in the Asset's mind. Upon closer investigation, as well as breaking into government census records, the skinny bespectacled guy with a rainbow backpack who worked in a café really was… Steven Grant Rogers of Brooklyn, New York.

Damn.

As for the third item of their plan, finding a Bucky had failed spectacularly. Though the Asset squeezed the mobsters for intel, there didn’t seem to be any assassins for hire with any likeness to the Asset. All of the known Hydra bases as well as typical locations Hydra would have used seemed to be simple civilian stores, government buildings with no strange side accesses. His passcodes didn’t work anywhere.

As for official records, it appeared that there are no living James Buchanan Barneses. The last known James Buchanan Barnes they found had died several years previously in a car crash.

Now, at a loss for what to do, and still very intrigued by this new Steve, the Asset has started to follow him around. Tail him. He needs to gather… data. See the man.

Problem is, Bucky is actively against the activity. He just wants to go up to him and talk like a normal person would, forgetting that they aren’t a normal person. This Steve is a skinny slip of a thing. His face is unmistakable but his whole body is just a small bony version of the muscular behemoths the Asset knows. And that does something to Bucky.

To be frank, it does something to the Asset, as well. An ever-slipping control and the sexual awakening that was a product of getting to know all the former Steves had opened his eyes. Enough so that, as he looks on from the other side of the street, watching Steve, all angles and bony fingers tapping away on a phone with tufts of blonde hair sticking out from under a red beanie, the Asset feels drawn in. His cheekbones are sharper than the Asset’s Captain, his face unscarred and skin unmarred by chair malfunctions. His beaky nose supports a pair of black-framed glasses. He’s thin as a rail, which is obvious because, underneath his big striped jacket and large scarf, his skinny jeans reveal a pair of long, thin legs.

_Haven’t seen sights that good since the forties._

Steve takes a left turn on a street corner and the Asset decides to follow him.

 _That’s crass,_ says Bucky’s voice in the Asset’s head. _He's Stevie. We should go talk to him. He's the best thing since apple pie, you know?_

Maybe it is. Crass. But the Asset feels better seeing Steve from afar; he doesn't know how to talk to real people, so he’ll just tail him. He’s an assassin. Tailing people is part of his skill set. He needs to apply the full breadth of this skill set if he wants to finish the mission. All the other Steves were, in a way, extraordinary. From the future, supersoldier. This one is a normal Steve in a normal world.

He’s been following this tiny version of Steve for several minutes — distracted regularly by Bucky being adamant they should talk to Steve and not be a creepy asshole — when his target whirls around to face him. Damn. Bucky might have been distracting him more than he thought. It's gotten harder to work efficiently when both the Asset and Bucky are disagreeing.

“Are you following me?” Steve asks angrily, his tufts of blonde hair reminding Bucky of an angry duckling, and the Asset of fluffy things he can’t have. His eyes, sky blue, are angry, too. The Asset thinks of his Steve, his one sky blue eye, the other electric blue, an implant, and the scarring on his face. Sad, sad eyes.

The Asset shakes his head jerkily. “N-no.” It’s a lie, he should never lie while reporting to a handler.

“Then who the fuck are you?”

That deep voice is the same, whichever universe the Asset goes to. Strong, authoritative, soothing, perfect, perfect. Bucky and the Asset alike turn towards it like a sunflower towards the Sun, though the anger in the voice makes them quake in their boots, too.

“I- I’m sorry, I’m not,” he stammers, “I’m not following, I just. I. Go that way.”

“Rrrright.” Steve answers, irony dripping from that single word. He shrugs his backpack back up onto his shoulder. “I’ve got pepper spray.” he says it like a threat.

The Asset approves.

“That’s good.” the Asset nods, feeling Bucky’s easy smile on his face. “Streets aren’t always safe.”

That seems to cut the wind from Steve’s sails. “What?”

“I, uh.” The Asset shuffles his feet and licks his lips. He’s unsure of how to lead the conversation. This is turning out to be so very far from his skill set, and Bucky's contribution seems to be limited to yelling _kiss him!_ “I need to go.”

“What?” Steve says, but the Asset is already walking past him and hurrying down the street. “Wait!”

No, he won’t wait, he can’t. He can’t stay here and look at those irate blue eyes and listen to that voice. Even after all those Steves, it’s still so overwhelming, so powerful, like looking into a laser. Burning. It’s not just the Asset affected by this one Steve, it’s Bucky, too, yearning, straining against the confines of his mind.

They need to regroup. Plan. Get Bucky to deal with the whole ‘talking to someone’ thing.

They flee the street like an arachnophobe from a cobweb-filled basement.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Steve leans away from the frother he’s using to make some foamy milk for the last order before it’s his turn to man the till. The machine lets out a jet of hot air with a high whine, and for a second he can’t see anything through his fogged up glasses.

Above him, Celine Dion is singing her heart out over the speakers, hanging up her highest note just as Steve manages to wrangle the order and calls for Jessica to come take her order.

“Natasha? You take over?” he calls back towards the storage room.

Natasha pokes her head out through the door. “Yeah, go ahead,” she calls back tersely, obviously holding something heavy just out of sight — Steve hopes she isn’t trying to lug around the soy milk pallet, that would be the best way to end up breaking her back.

As the music shifts to Elton John — today was his turn to be in charge of the music, to everyone’s profound despair, because Steve is a big fan of the nineties and will die for Mariah Carey — Wanda leaves the till to go help Natasha and Steve sidles up to the counter to take the order of a harried man in a suit. Then a blank-faced student sporting the faraway thousand-yard stare of someone who has gone through finals and left part of their soul in an essay. Then—

“You!” _The stalker!_

“Uhm.” The man looks at Steve, then his gaze slides to the side.

Steve frowns and looks at the man up and down, judgingly. There’s a lot to stare at, really. The man is buff, muscular under his leather jacket. His long hair, partially hidden under a hoodie, grazes his shoulders, and his eyes, the icy blue of eyes that tend to change colour with the setting, are shifting all over the place. He looks nervous and uneasy, trapped, and his handsomeness is kind of unsettling.

Steve hesitates and throws a glance at the line. He doesn’t really have the time to settle this. And anyway, what is he gonna do? Grab the guy and try to heave him over the counter and stuff him in the fridge? He’d need a crane to hoist all that muscle over here.

“Uhm. I—” the man says shiftily. “I would like a coffee?”

“Right. A coffee.” Steve punches the keys on the till. “Tall black coffee, I suppose.” He looks like all those manly men whose fragile egos feel threatened if they don’t drink manly black masculine coffee. “Sugar?” he asks, convinced the stalker won’t take sugar, because sugar is a danger to masculinity or something.

“Nn—Yes.”

 _Oh._ Steve squints. The man is clearly uncomfortable. His gaze slides down to the hands that the man has started wringing nervously, and his eyes stop at the metal prosthetic. _Oh. Oh no. Shit._

Prosthetic. Stuttering. Weirdly intense guy. Fuck. He must be a veteran. Or something. _Shit shit shit._

Steve finally forces a smile on his face, desperate to retcon the last minutes of his bad mood. “Alright, sir! Anything else?”

The man shakes his head first then nods imperceptibly. “The big cookie over there.” And he points at the big pink caramel-and-marshmallow cookie.

Struggling to put some normalcy back into this interaction, and trying to make up for his quite angry first meeting, Steve beams sunnily, gets the cookie and then asks, “Okay? What’s your name?”

“What?” The man boggles slightly.

Steve shakes the cup. “For the order.”

“I’m the Asssss… uhm.” His voice stutters to a stop.

 _The Ass?_ Steve’s jaw falls to the floor. Or maybe even lower. “... Pardon?”

“I’m No! Sorry. Bucky! My name is Bucky,” the man — Bucky — hurries to rectify.

 _What the fuck, what the fuck is going on here?_ Steve, jaw still hanging, scribbles on the cup without really seeing what he’s doing. “That’s seven dollars and sixty-nine cents.”

Bucky quite apparently has decided that words are just a weapon too powerful to be used without incurring thermonuclear mortification, so he just nods, dumps some bills and change, and doesn’t give Steve a chance to say goodbye before he disappears from view to go get his order.

Shit. Steve’s never been smooth, but Lordy Fuck, what the hell was that? His own version of a meet ugly?

Good thing people don’t have any time to spare for his inner meltdown, because he’s soon taking an order for five people and it is enough to absorb all of his attention.

Until.

“ASS!” Natasha yells.

Holy shit.

Steve whirls around, looks at the serving counter, and yes, there he is, Bucky McGorgeous, walking up shamefacedly, taking his cookie and coffee before fleeing the premises.

Fuck.

Steve contains his whine of despair and goes back to work, burning with embarrassment.

And that’s why he can’t have nice things, for fuck’s sake.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

The Asset has been trained not to give up. Or more specifically, never to give a report that would earn him a punishment. Failure is not in his nature — except for the fact that he is currently trying very hard to fail at Hydra’s mission. As for the part of him that is Bucky, well, Bucky’s not a quitter, oh boy, no he ain’t.

So one failed tailing and a disastrous cookie and coffee order are not going to deter the Winter Soldier, the fist of fucking Hydra, the Asset. Nope.

Not _Ass_ though, he wasn’t Ass, and good Jesus, he knew _Asset_ wasn’t an acceptable name, but did Bucky have to stall him right in the middle of saying “Asset”? Cause he’d made a very literal Ass of himself, then.

Ugh.

The Asset pushes open the door to the coffee shop. He’s staked out the place and chosen a less crowded hour of the day, and has timed his arrival so that Steve will be manning the counter for the last few minutes before his shift change. He’s observed how this works and knows that when Steve takes the last order before shift change, he both takes the order and also makes it. He’s talked to himself a lot in his apartment, coaxing Bucky out of his brain, in the hopes that this fledgling new person that has been growing there could help him interact, talk, speak to Steve without making him afraid.

This Steve is different. He knows it. He’s been living all his life in a universe devoid of any enhanced beings. The Asset would be monstrous on his own, so he needs all the help Bucky can give.

The Asset steels himself, injects some soldiery confidence in Bucky’s swagger, and walks up to the counter.

“Hello! What can I get— oh.” Steve stops talking, his eyes round behind his glasses and a blush climbing to his cheekbones.

He’s just as handsome as all the other Steves.

The Asset lets Bucky take control of the situation, because maybe, just maybe, this isn’t really a spy op.

“Hi, I’m goin’ to order some cawfee. Maybe add some milk in there?” he says, all suave with half a smile dimpling his left cheek.

Steve blinks owlishly and blushes even more, and then it’s his turn to stammer. “I. Yes. A latte, maybe?”

“Great, that’d be great. Make it tall,” Bucky says, and then, “The name’s Bucky, by the way.”

Steve takes a second to shake himself out of his daze and asks, “Not Ass, then?” and proceeds to blush furiously.

Bucky laughs, or at least he tries, but the Asset hasn’t laughed in years. Universe hopping, even though it has made him experience a lot of new emotions, can’t really erase decades of blank unhappiness. Their laughter is hoarse, slightly robotic, throaty and deep, sharp.

Bucky doesn’t really like the Asset’s laugh, but he might have to revise his opinion when he sees Steve’s glazed eyes staring at them, and the way his cheeks are all blotchy red.

“Sorry. Sorry. Any, uh. Anything else?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Bucky refrains from calling him sweetheart, because retail workers don’t need that kind of shit.

Steve squeaks the price and Bucky pays, then promptly slides down to the serving counter. They observe Steve as he prepares the drink, the Asset assessing each of Steve’s movements, gauging his comfort levels, his attitude, how flustered he looks.

He’s had a mission, and it had been to find a Steve to bring back to base. Ever since then, they have been struggling to figure out how to change that mission… The Asset blinks, thinking, like Bucky, that maybe if their mission isn’t to find a Steve to bring back, then maybe. Just maybe. Maybe they should find a good Steve to take care of them. To take care of the Captain, too?

The Captain, his mismatched, intense blue eyes so serious, his hair, blond like straw, calm and composed, lost like him, and waiting back there in the cold.

The Asset has been unthawing more than usual, he thinks, and deeper. He has unthawed something hidden, beyond the usual defrosting procedure, thanks to all of the Steves he’s met. The Captain deserves to know how it feels to unthaw that much.

Steve spends some time scribbling on the cup, which the Asset thinks is a bit much for a name as short as Bucky.

Steve puts the cup down right in front of him and Bucky smiles up at him, elbows on the counter, watching Steve blush again.

“Here you go, Bucky.”

“Thanks.” They take the drink and move to walk away. Their goal here had just been to hook Steve in. They are from another universe, and contrary to beardy Steve of the future, they hadn’t fallen right into this one’s lap, so of course they won’t be able to charm their way into this new Steve’s good graces with one successful coffee order. This will be a long mission.

“Hey?” Bucky turns around at the interjection; Steve is still blushing, but he’s sporting a lopsided grin now, too. Steve points to Bucky’s cup. “Check the name.”

Bucky looks down at his cup, and reads, “Bucky. I get off work in an hour.” _Well then._ Looking back up at Steve, he asks, “Mind if your customers hog a seat by the window for an hour?”

Steve tuts. “Ah, we don’t allow that when it’s rush hour.” He fakes a grimace and they both look around the nearly empty coffee shop and the nonexistent line.

Bucky chuckles. “Oh no, that’s a shame.”

They're graced with a wide smile and crinkled eyes, and Steve plays with his earring, looking less embarrassed now. “Come on, go sit over there by the window, it’s the best place.”

The Asset likes that. Orders. And Steve is being nice, making him sit by the window. All the Steves have been so nice, really, even future serious Steve was nice in his own way, putting the Asset in his place.

He goes to sit by the window, and yeah, it is nice. Sunny, calm too. Bucky is getting tired of being in charge. Since he knows he has an hour to wait, the Asset starts to zone out and put himself in standby mode. Bucky’s voice feels faint in the back of his mind, waxing lyrical about Steve’s blush and his eyes while the Asset stares out the window and sips his coffee intermittently.

People are passing by. He thinks about the Captain. He thinks about the mission. This world doesn’t seem to have any kind of frame of reference for a serum. This Steve looks very far from being enhanced.

What if his mission fails, his mission as the Asset? Will he cease to be the Asset? Failure begets failure, how will he manage to save the Captain if he voluntarily fails the mission right beforehand? Saving the Captain is too important for him to fail, but if he fails once, he might fail twice.

Sudden movement in his periphery jolts him out of his reverie and he watches as Steve sidles up to his table and puts down another big cookie on a plate. “Here you go. On the house.”

Bucky is still deep in his head, resting, so there’s only the Asset here to stumble through human interactions. He pokes confusedly at the cookie with its caramel crust and chunks of chocolate, and thinks he might be hungry. How did Steve know? “Uhm. Thanks,” he says quietly.

Steve smiles. “An apology for that time I accused you of being a stalker.”

“Oh.” But he’d been tailing Steve, though. _Don’t tell him that, asshole!_ “I love cookies,” the Asset says with feeling. The last one had been like bliss, everything soft and great in the world compressed into crumbly softness, the taste of butter and sugar and dough incredible for someone who is surviving on MREs and protein drinks.

Steve looks at him strangely, tilts his head like he’s got a question and doesn’t know how to ask it. But when the door opens and someone goes up to the counter, the Asset can see the redhead sending dirty glares at Steve for deserting his post behind the coffee machine. Steve apologises quietly and says, “I’ll get you another one when my shift ends, then.” And he winks.

He winks!

Did that mean something positive? Bucky seems to be sure that’s positive, he sounds elated while the Asset breaks off a small piece of cookie and puts it in his mouth.

He has no desire to go back to standby mode, now. Both he and Bucky savour the cookie, taking it apart piece by piece and eating it slowly so they can make it last. The coffee smells great, and Bucky says it smells less strong than some did back in his day. Way back when, during the war, he would make coffee out of just about anything: boil water, pour it over chicory and acorn when there were no coffee beans anywhere. It tasted like shit. Sometimes they would brew the coffee so strong it felt like it was burning a hole in his stomach lining, but he’d drink it, huddled in a foxhole…

The Asset wonders how old they must be, he and Bucky and also the Captain, for Bucky to remember a war long past. The memories feel old, yellowed, faded with age and wear and tear.

His coffee still smells too much like coffee and bad memories to be drunk, though, kinda like the black coffee Steve served him last time, which had made his gut churn so much. He doesn't touch what’s left of the coffee, his stomach is already getting upset at the few sips he’s taken.

The cookie, however, doesn’t last forever, and Bucky pouts, while the Asset decides to pick up all the crumbs and small shards of caramel by poking them with his finger. No cookie crumbs shall ever be wasted, that should be something in his programming from now on.

“Hey.” It’s soft and sweet and a low rumble, and to the Asset’s surprise, he hadn’t heard Steve come back.

The Asset is unsure how to proceed with human interaction, again, and tries to let Bucky smile, and talk and be human. “Hey…” Steve is standing awkwardly to the side of the table, now sans apron, with a plateful of pastries, biscuits and a drink of his own. “You brought your own.”

“Yeah, I like sugary shit. Seems like you got a sweet tooth too!” He chuckles and sits down at the table. “Oh, you didn’t drink yours?”

“The cookie was too good,” the Asset mumbles, cheeks flushing, “and coffee makes me think of war. The other day I couldn’t finish it.”

“War? Oh shit.” In front of him, Steve makes a face, kind of an _oh no!_ face. “Would sugar and milk help? Flavours maybe? Changing the colour?”

“You can change the colour of coffee?” they ask incredulously.

“Any allergies?” Steve inquires.

They shake their head slowly and Steve winks again, like this is a secret, grabs Bucky’s full cup, and goes behind the counter. They watch him exchange some words with the redhead, who rolls her eyes while Steve prepares something, brews some stuff. They don’t really know what he’s doing. All they know is that when Steve comes back and plops himself on the seat in front of them, their coffee has now transformed into a pink-and-white confection that is far removed from any semblance of coffeeness.

“Pink beans, a house specialty,” Steve explains. “It’s red coffee beans brewed with steamed marshmallow-flavoured milk topped with whipped cream and candied raspberry and blueberry croquant bits.”

Bucky and the Asset look at the beverage, slightly overwhelmed, but curious nonetheless. “Is it going to kill us— me?”

“I’m just hoping you don’t have diabetes.”

Mesmerised for some seconds by Steve fiddling with his earring, they end up distracting themselves by taking a sip of their drink.

And then they just can’t stop.

“Wow, you really like that.” they hear Steve say as they basically guzzle down the drink and lick at their whipped cream moustache. “Jeez.”

Fuck, it was so, so very sweet. Maybe the Asset's body had been craving sugar. They look at Steve’s amused gaze and think that maybe it goes beyond sustenance, though. Steve had _made_ this beverage, _for them_.

“It’s so sweet how you were all confident when you went up to the counter and now you’re just so cute and blushing,” Steve wonders aloud, looking at them. “I like this role reversal.”

“We…” _Not we, Asset you dumbass, he’s gonna think we’re nuts_. “I, uhm. I thought I. I just.”

“Hey, don’t worry, I get it. You’re a war veteran right?” Bucky nods, he is. Is the Asset a veteran? “Sometimes you end up using all your self-assurance on the one conversation and there’s nothing left for the convo afterwards, right?”

 _Damn._ “Yes, yes, that.” They nodded profusely.

“Don’t worry. I got a friend, Sam? He’s a vet, too, he’s all smiles and smooth talking until he can’t anymore and then he’ll go take a break for a while.” Steve pushes the plate into the middle of the table. “Another cookie?”

The Asset has never been so profoundly perceived in his long lifetime. This might be the one. The one Steve they all need.

“Yes, please,” they nod again, like a puppet, awed by the incredible skinny being in front of them. “Cookie, please.”

Steve chuckles and breaks the cookie in two, then one of the halves into thirds, and gives one small bite to Bucky.

“Saw you liked it in little bits. You like to take your time, relish the taste, huh?”

Bucky takes the cookie bite. “I like _**you**_.” And eats it.

“Jesus, you’re cute.”

The Asset doubts that, and even Bucky is doubtful. Bucky was _dashing_ , not cute. As for the Asset, he’s like the Captain: a weapon. However, he’s not going to say that, because a Steve always knows best. Steve gives them another bite that they plop in their mouth and delight in eating.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

They hum, distracted, Bucky back to gushing about Steve’s eyes and the Asset still marvelling at the concept of sugar and artificial flavours.

“How long has it been?”

“How long what?” they ask, as the Asset pokes at the other half of the cookie until Steve benevolently breaks it down to tiny bites.

“Since your last tour.” At Bucky’s raised eyebrow he clarifies, “War?”

It’s a good question, for which they have no good answer. Should they answer in this universe’s years? Theirs? Does cryo count? “A very long time.”

Steve smirks, “what, like, ‘it’s been eighty-four years?’”

They shrug, munching on a piece of cookie, this one caramel and pecan. “more like ninety-nine years, I think, although I’d need to ask the Captain.”

From Steve’s cute smile, the kind that comes from watching small animals trip over their paws, Bucky knows he’s missed something in the conversation. A conversational ball rolling down the field, a clue missed, a reference for which he has no footnotes.

“Uhm…”

Steve snorts but doesn’t let them wallow in confusion. “Don’t worry, ninety-nine, eighty-four, it’s all the same to me, I’m too gay for math.”

They frown. “But they still force you to work at the cash register?” No one should force this Steve to do anything. The Captain and the Asset, maybe, but not this condensed version of Steve. “That ain’t right. Did you tell your boss?”

Steve gapes at them for a second, and they have no idea why. They also have an overwhelming desire to know who the fuck forces Steve to do math when he can’t because he’s gay, so that the Asset can go blow their kneecaps.

“Holy shit. You really are too precious for words.”

They frown. Bucky is out of the loop and tired, and the Asset is too clueless. They feel like they’ve missed several cues. “Is it bad?”

“No. It's great.” Steve puts his hand on the Asset's hand, the metal hand that only really belongs to him and not to Bucky. The ease with which Steve simply holds it like it’s a real hand and traces the knuckle plating with his thumb is humbling to them. “Is this okay?”

They poke at the caramel and pecan crumbs and lick their finger before nodding emphatically. “Yes. Do the thumb thing again?”

Steve does so, and smiles. “I’m gonna beat myself up if I don’t at least try and ask, even if you are way out of my league, but… do you want to date?”

Date?

Wait.

Was this part of their plan?

What were the mission parameters again?

_Date him, you fucking idiot!_

“Can it be a cookie date?”

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Their first date is a cookie date. They think Steve will take them back to the café, but Steve gives them a meeting point elsewhere. The Asset cases the joint well in advance.

It’s a cookie shop.

The Asset has no frame of reference for love, but, as he bites down on his seventh cookie, trying to answer Steve’s questions about himself (“What do you like?” “I like naps and soft blankets.”) or sometimes about Bucky (“Do you have family?” “Had some, but they're all dead now.”), the Asset thinks that maybe he’s a little bit in love.

No handler has ever been so careful with his maintenance.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

On their second date, the Asset gets Bucky to help plan everything. They get some flowers. They buy a calculator, to help Steve with math at the till. They buy a little notepad with a rainbow cover. They bring Steve to a park just before nightfall. They show the sunset to Steve, as if they’d created the concept themselves.

Steve loves the flowers and thinks the notepad is cute. But when he gets the calculator, he gets this little confused frown, until the Asset haltingly explains why they’d bought it. Then Steve laughs and grabs them by their coat lapels and kisses them full on the mouth.

The Asset feels quite overwhelmed, and lets Bucky take over. Bucky knows about kisses. He knows about dates.

Steve kisses Bucky and Bucky lets him, head full of missed opportunities finally laid to rest.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

On their third date, they agree to go with Steve to a cinema. They let Steve pick the movie, something that is supposed to be calm, about penguins or something. The programming must be slipping, though, because although they did some recon, they did not think in advance and were careless.

The room is dark and the noises are all loud. Bucky remembers shelling and foxholes, the Asset thinks of black, black nights in rooms alone, waiting for his turn to be put on ice, waiting for the screams of pain to abate when the Captain had been put in the chair for the first time and it had…

He doesn’t remember much of the movie, mainly because he must have seized and frozen very early on.

But Steve is the best Steve and also the best handler ever, maybe. He exfiltrates them quickly, buys some caramel popcorn, and says he’s bringing them to his own apartment. The Asset is a mess, Bucky is a mess, everything is too bright outside, still too loud, and they whimper in pain.

But Steve is a comforting presence at his side, his hand latched onto their wrist — theirs, the human one, and how intelligent is this Steve to know that both Bucky and the Asset needed that? They let themselves be led through the streets until they reach a building. Steve explains everything they are doing and where they are going. His voice is constantly there, even when the panic blinds them again and all they have to rely on is listening to their tiny handler.

The agoraphobia is kicking in and the Asset feels exposed, but soon, Steve ushers them into a hallway, and up two flights of stairs. There they are, in an apartment, blessedly quiet.

For all they know, they could have used the universe hopping tool, jumped from the scary dark place to here with no in-between. They are so discombobulated, time feels choppy and weird.

“Hey? Bucky?”

They shake their head, Bucky, the Asset — they shake their head, overwhelmed and scared.

“Okay, come on, baby.” _Baby? Where’s the baby?_

Steve’s guiding hand pulls them deeper into the apartment and the Asset barely manages to get a feel for the room they are in, but he instinctively knows there are no babies in the room.

“Sit there.” Steve points to a bed. It’s an order, and it feels good, so good, so the Asset goes to sit and wait and already feels a hundred times better. Maybe he’ll get punishment for his malfunction, but punishment is expected and welcome. Being afraid is horrible. Uncertainty is danger.

Steve is in front of him, crouching to look the Asset in the eyes. “Hey, you back with me?”

It’s hard to get his voice to work again. “I’m sorry for malfunctioning.”

“Christ.” Steve stands up, the Asset closes his eyes, waiting patiently for punishment, but instead he feels a light, soft weight settle around his shoulders. He looks down and gently fingers the blanket in wonderment. Steve comes back into his field of vision. “You lie down, and stay here.”

The Asset blinks up owlishly at Steve, so very relieved. _Orders, uwu._

“Yes, sir.” He scoots up the bed to lie down, dragging the blanket with him. Steve didn’t tell him what exactly to do, so he rolls into a tight little ball and drapes the blanket over himself.

Steve looks surprised, standing at the side of the bed where the Asset had been. “Fuck, Bucky. Okay, okay.” He rakes a hand through his blonde hair. “Focus, Steve.” Then he disappears down the hallway.

The Asset whimpers again and brings a corner of the blanket to his nose to rub the soft fleece over the bridge of it, soothing himself. Bucky feels so still in his mind, reeling. They both can hear Steve puttering around in the apartment, so they close their eyes and listen.

Cupboards opened and closed, footsteps, microwave, fridge, cupboards again, some crinkling of paper or plastic. They listen to Steve swear and stomp around.

They feel like their brain is resetting.

And in doing so, they get an idea. _The best idea ever_ , Bucky thinks, waking up more and more.

Steve’s footsteps approach and stop right beside the bed. The Asset lets Bucky do his thing, in the back of his mind, and opens his eyes to look at Steve.

He’s holding a tray loaded with two mugs of something steaming and a blueberry muffin.

“I made some muffins yesterday.” He puts the plate on the bedside table. “Okay, sit up.” The Asset does, and Steve clears his throat and blushes before sitting down and giving them the mug. “Here you go, hot chocolate with cinnamon sugar.”

The Asset looks down at the mug. It smells divine. “Drink?” he asks Steve.

“You need to drink it, baby, yeah.” Which is a strange sentence because there are no babies — _it’s us he’s calling baby, you numbnuts_.

The Asset nods, and drinks, mechanically at first and then more slowly, savouring the beverage like he did his first cookie. Each gulp makes him all hot inside, softer — it feels like a blanket, but inside of him. There are some grains of sugar mixed with cinnamon and leftover chocolate at the bottom, and he sucks them down to roll them on his tongue, letting the mix of spice and sugar dissolve in his mouth.

Steve, who’s been watching him like a hawk, presents the Asset with a piece of blueberry muffin. “Come on, eat.”

“No punishment?” he asks.

“Punish—, fuck, no, no punishment. I don’t punish people unless we’ve had a conversation about safewords first,” Steve grumbles, then pushes the bit of cake closer to them.

“Oh,” they sigh. No punishment.

They bend their head down slightly to eat the piece of muffin straight from Steve’s fingers.

Steve makes a noise like he’s suffocating. It’s alarming. “Are you okay, Steve?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry about me.” Steve clears his throat and breaks up another piece of muffin. “I’m not the one who just had a panic attack.”

They hum pensively, thinking that it had felt like all those times Hydra took him out of the ice and how disoriented, lost, suffocated, blind; like how he felt then, and how the Captain could always coax him out of it because he was the only one the Asset recognized instinctively.

“The Captain did this for me before the…” Before the mission. The mission he wanted badly to fail. Before he and Bucky changed the parameters of the mission. Before he was sent. Before he— “before I escaped.”

“Escaped from where?” Steve asks softly as they bend down and eat from Steve’s hand again. It feels great doing that.

“From my former handlers. From the… dark. From… It was always dark there. From my cell. That I shared with the Captain.”

Steve frowned, watching them munching on the muffin. “You were a prisoner? A prisoner of war?”

Were they? Had they been?

Bucky had.

“Yes,” they answer matter-of-factly.

There is a long silence then, only broken by Steve giving him a second mug of hot chocolate and bunching up another blanket, this one with a cute checkered pattern that they look at with half a smile.

“I left the Captain there. I’ll have to get him back.”

“Was he your Captain before you got caught?” Steve whispers, and they stare at him, examining his face, because Steve looks sad.

Maybe. Bucky remembers walks in foggy forests and a man in garish colours. “I think so. My memories are coming back slowly.”

“Jesus.” Steve feeds them another piece of blueberry muffin, sets aside the second mug — Bucky thinks this mug was initially for Steve but it seems like he decided the Asset and Bucky needed it more. “How is he, that Captain of yours?”

They lick their lips, chasing the taste of the sugary treats Steve had been feeding them. “He’s you. He’s you, Steve. Just from another world. A world where I wake up on cold hard floors and he’s there and he helps me sleep and eat and drink when nothing makes sense and everything hurts.” They let the sentence hang here in the air, and end up hugging the blanket closer. They sway towards Steve and kiss him on the lips, almost reverently. “Like you do.”

Steve still has his eyes closed from the kiss when they sit back. He licks his lips, as if he, too, is chasing the taste of blueberries and chocolate.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, “I’m not sure I understand all you’re saying but… I’ll do my best to be there for you, okay?”

“If I saved the Captain, would you be there for him, too?” That’s an important question if they want their _Idea_ to work.

Steve sighs. “I’m not a therapist, you know? As a matter of fact, maybe you should see a therapist, too.”

“But.” They frown. “I don’t want someone else to feed me muffins?”

Steve chuckles. “I can handle feeding beefy guys cookies and rolling them in blankets and… other things. But I can’t help with your trauma.”

“Huh.” Perfect. Steve seems to be on board with their Idea. “If I get a therapist for my trauma will we be able to go to the cinema?”

“Yes. Now come on, lie down. You need rest now.”

“Nap?” they ask as they lie down, watching Steve tidy up the tray of mugs and muffin crumbs.

“Yes nap. Get under the covers, Bucky.”

He does, and lies on his back, staring at the ceiling and thinking that Steve would be very good for the Captain. The Captain is beefy and handsome. He has the scars to prove that he’s strong, and blue eyes. He is a Steve, too, and all the Steves are beautiful.

He feels the bedcovers rustle and turns to look at Steve getting under the sheets. He’s shed his sweater and looks thin in his tight marine-blue tank top. “Turn your back to me, Bucky.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m the big spoon here.”

He turns around and lies on his right side, not knowing what to expect. Steve isn’t a utensil — _it’s an expression, he’s going to hug you_ , Bucky explains, and ah. That makes sense.

Bucky thinks he remembers being a big spoon once or twice. The Asset knows that the Captain wants to look at him, and they always sleep facing each other. They don’t know what to expect until spindly arms wind around their big chest and hug them back against Steve’s body. Steve’s head rests in the perfect slot at the nape of their neck. They can feel him kiss the spot before smushing his cheek there. His long legs are winding and tangling with their own.

The Asset and Bucky feel all wrapped up.

They go to sleep enveloped in Steve, the big-little spoon to Steve’s little-big spoon.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Bucky has an _Idea_. A **plan**. They are counting the weapons they took off the mob that they’ve basically eradicated. There are a lot; it’s an arsenal sufficient to do some damage to Hydra, get the Captain back, and bring him to this world. Then maybe Steve can give cookies to the Captain.

It would be up to Steve to decide if he wants to give hugs and blankets, of course. Steve _is_ kinda small, and well, they _are_ kinda big. The Captain, too. It would be understandable that Steve might not want to spread himself too thin.

The plan is simple, and even though they aren’t the Captain, they feel like it’s sound. Solid.

Jump to another universe.

Take the tracker chip out from the remote, leave it there.

Jump to his world of origin.

Kill everybody in the base and retrieve the Captain.

Bring the Captain to skinny-Steve universe.

Give him a cookie.

Introduce Steve to Steve.

This is sound. If some Hydra forces decide to investigate, they might go to the last known universe where he left the tracker chip. The other Steves know already of his situation, so they’ll be prepared if Hydra comes.

The cookie should help with most problems. At worst, if they don’t have a cookie on hand for point number six, they’ll switch six and seven and get skinny-Steve to give big-Steve the cookie.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

The Captain has been sitting in this room for a long time. They froze and unfroze him and then brought him back to the chair. He knows all this, but little else. He knows there’s something missing, he keeps noticing all the shapes of its absence, the uninhabited shadows where _something_ should be.

He’s been sitting in the dark and the cold on a cot that feels eerily familiar but also different. They’ve served him slop, hosed him down. He eats, sleeps, shits and showers. They’ve sent him to training, soldiers and handlers watching him closely. He’s been dutifully following orders, and feeling around this shape of absence like a tongue pushing at a tooth that has just fallen out.

He’s in his cell, alone, dark, damp, and cold, in this halfway state between sleep and wakefulness that he’s been trained to default back to when he’s waiting. It’s like staying on standby— alert but still, and only half aware.

The Captain gets startled out of this trance-like state by the sound of a gun firing in a closed space. The quality of the air changes, from still and inert to full of uncertainty.

Something’s closing in on his location.

Clad in thin pants and a shirt, drab and utilitarian, he has nothing to defend himself with but surprise and brute strength. He gets up, and listens close to the cries of pain, gunshots, some other type of weaponry, the echoes getting closer. There is a ruthlessness in the bloody path that is being traced towards him that feels like another shape, another absence, an empty slot being filled.

It makes him hesitate. Halt in his steps. Weakness. Failure.

The door is kicked in, and the Captain crouches on reflex.

“Steve? Captain?” A hoarse voice asks.

The Captain stands up and his throat clicks when he tries to swallow.

In front of him, there’s a man he knew, a man he knows, maybe. The missing tooth, the missing piece of which he had only had the silhouette.

“Asset.”

“We’re escaping.”

“Are we?”

“Yes. I’ve found us a new handler. He’ll take care of us. Of you”

“New handler?” The Captain frowns. “I’m the one… You’re Bucky. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

He’s standing here, looking at this man who has the shape of all the missing pieces he’s noticed over time. Bucky comes closer, the harsh red glow of emergency alarm lights backlighting his face. He gets closer and, telegraphing his gestures, slowly raises his hand, touches the side of the Captain’s face, the side spiderwebbed with scars, where his eye has been replaced. It doesn’t hurt; it feels numb. It’s the memory that hurts. Even forgotten, the phantom of it still makes him burn and turn cold with shock.

“I know.” Bucky’s hand travels down, very slowly, to the Captain’s hand. “And now, I can do it, too.”

The Captain nods, then. He’ll go wherever Bucky is. The Asset. “I have a name.”

“We both do.” Bucky puts a gun in his hand. “And you deserve to unthaw like I did.”

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

“Romanova.”

“Natasha, it’s me, Steve,” he wheezes as he trots across the pedestrian crossing.

“Did you know I didn’t even have to check the caller ID?” she comments. Steve can hear her moving around her apartment, doing something, sounds like she’s stretching? “I figured it was only a matter of days before you’d have your big gay meltdown.”

He stops on the other side of the street and glowers at a pigeon that lands in front of him, as if the bird is disrespecting him. “I should hang up.”

“But then who will assuage your fears in a brusque manner and with words filled with irony?”

“You are a horrible person.”

“Tell me something new.” She’s definitely stretching, her voice going muffled sometimes and all wheezy.

He lets all of that slide because there are other, beefy, more pressing matters to attend to.

“I need you to tell me this is a bad idea.”

“Which idea, Steve, you rarely have non-bad ones.”

“I wanna ask Bucky to be my boyfriend.” He sighs explosively, still standing in front of the very puzzled pigeon. “Fuck. Shit.” He resumes walking once the pigeon starts looking judgy, which feels too much like having Natasha judge him in stereo. “He’s so weird, so traumatised, I know next to nothing about him and he looks like he needs about fifteen therapists—”

“Wait. Steve.”

“I have no idea if he has a job, he was a POW, has fucking retrograde amnesia, and I’m sixty percent sure he dated his CO when he was a soldier… Fuck.”

“Steve…” Natasha has her serious voice on, damn. “Are you trying to reverse-reverse psychology yourself here? Convince me to tell you it’s a bad idea so you can do it because you only go for bad ideas?”

“…………… Nnnnoooo?” Way to go, Steve, he couldn’t have sounded less sure.

“Christ,” Natasha mutters. He looks up the building where he knows Bucky lives. It’s a nice building, not completely outrageous, but clearly well-kept. “Steve.”

“Yeaaaaah?” He winces because he can feel the next question coming up.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“I’m, uh…” A little old lady with a hat and a pocket dog walks out and Steve holds the door for her. He gets rewarded with a quavering, “Thank you young man,” and an opportunity to slip into the building. “I’m in his apartment building, with a tupperware of cookies.”

“Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this is more dire than I thought.”

He eyes the bank of elevators and wracks his brain, searching for Bucky’s apartment number.

“Does he know how… in charge you like to get?”

He sighs and punches the call button for the elevator. The doors open immediately and he steps in and calls for the fourth floor. “I’ve dropped hints.”

“Steve. And I’m saying this with the utmost respect for this man who I have only observed from my latte machine sniper’s nest, but your boy looks as thick mentally that he is physically.”

“But he takes orders so easily, Natashaaaa…” Steve moans, his anguish so strong he makes like a spaghetti noodle and wibble-wobbles on the spot. “He called me ‘Sir.’ Jesus, he was in the middle of a panic attack and I popped a boner, I’m the worst human being in existence.”

“So you’ll tell him. Explicitly. Before you set out to wife the fuck out of him? Right?”

“Yes, yes,” Steve acquiesces as the numbers stop at four and the doors open.

“Do you even feel equipped to deal with all the baggage he’s got?” She sounds like she’s stopped stretching.

He looks up and down the corridor. Damn, it’s clean and shiny round here. Steve reevaluates the average income of the building’s occupants.

“Can’t know if I don’t try.”

“Right.”

“This is a bad idea,” he mutters, “such a fucking bad idea.”

“But I’m gonna do it,” Natasha intones, singsong.

“But I’m gonna do it.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Natasha. He likes to be the little spoon. He’s like thrice my volume in muscles. I’m thirty percent scarves but he calls me Sir and lets me feed him.” He hears Natasha hum absentmindedly as he walks down to door four oh six. “I think I’ve found my soulmate.”

“Please call me back once you have lured your Conan the Barbarian in with cookies. I’d like to make sure you’re not dead.”

“Okay.” He smiles and knocks at the door. “Will do.”

“Don’t call me if you’re sex-addled. Call Sam instead.”

He wouldn’t be so rude as to expound on his dick exploits with Natasha. Also, a sex-repulsed ace makes for a very poor public for sex stories.

“Bye, Nat.”

“Go get him, Rogers.”

As the call clicks off, Bucky’s door opens.

“Hi, Steve.”

Oh my God. Bucky is shirtless. Oh, wait that’s a strange arm—

“Steve? Meet Steve.”

And behind him is a giant blonde with Steve’s face.

“Oh fuck,” Steve whispers, and then promptly faints.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

“Run that by me again?” Steve grunts, sensing that the headache from having slammed his head on the doorjamb when he fainted was being compounded with a tension headache from all the fuckery his maybe-maybe not future boyfriend has been explaining for the last however long.

The Captain — as Bucky insists on calling Steve-the-Giant — is hovering in the entrance to the gigantic living room, sporting the air of a man ready to flee the premises if someone dares to breathe weird.

“The Captain and I lived in a world where Hydra, a Nazi organisation, took over the world. I have been their weapon for decades, because I am enhanced. I was their Asset, and Bucky… was me… I don’t remember being Bucky much. My best friend, Steve Rogers, was captured only when Hydra conquered us all. They made him into a weapon, like me, and like Bucky, who forgot and became me, the Asset, Steve forgot himself and became the Captain. They made us forget by putting us in a chair; burnt the memories away. One day, Hydra sent me on a mission to find other enhanced versions of Steve in order to make more Captains. But I… it felt wrong, the longer I stayed out there. I met other Steves, and they were different, they helped me remember. I don’t know if the sex was related to the memories coming back, though. I felt like I had to save my Steve instead of condemning another. Then I ended up here, and there’s no Hydra here, no enhanced people. And you were kind, and showed me how to care for someone, so I went and retrieved my Steve from our world to bring him here.”

Bucky looks like he believes every single word that’s coming out of his mouth. Also, what the fuck was that about sex? “So when you said you went to war ninety-nine years ago…”

“It’s been ninety-nine years since the war, yes, in my world, at least.”

Steve sighs and looks at Big Steve, who looks spooked and is managing to hover while simply standing in a perfect parade rest. “Come on, big guy, sit down at the table.” Big Steve nods jerkily and comes to sit down, but doesn’t look much more at ease than before. Steve licks his lips, and takes a gamble. “At ease,” he orders, as gentle as he can.

Big Steve immediately relaxes, uneasy still, but at least not as ramrod straight as before.

“Okay, so. I’m not calling you Asset, and neither am I calling you Captain. You both are… people. Do I call you Steve? Steven? Wait… is your middle name Grant too? Do you even _have_ a middle name?”

The Captain puts his hands flat on the table, and looks deep in thought. “I don’t… know? What’s my name?” He looks at Bucky out of the corner of his eyes. “You called me, once. You said my name, I think.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky says. “Maybe Hydra thought they’d burnt it out of us.”

The Captain nods, like this settles it, donning this full new identity. “Steven. Steven is good,” he declares, “I like the sound of it.”

Jeez, Steve and Steven, that’s gonna be a barrel of laughs.

“Alright. _Steven_ , Bucky. I… have no fucking idea if I should believe your story, but… I guess you’re here, so there’s that.”

His box of cookies had been saved because he hadn’t actually bashed his head that hard against the doorjamb, thanks to Bucky’s lightning-fast reflexes, which had saved both his skull and the cookies. For once at a loss for what to do, Steve takes one of the biscuits and starts eating it.

And stops when Steve **N** gets up abruptly and walks off. The hell? Steve munches on the white chocolate chip cookie, watching like a hawk while this giant and scarred version of him wanders off toward the TV. “Are you- HOLY SHIT!”

He’d thought Steven had decided that their convo wasn’t interesting enough, but instead, the man had just decided to go and pick up the coffee table one-handed, and what the SHIT? And then put it down and take one of the barbells from the other side of the living room and fucking bend it.

Steven puts the bent barbell on the sofa. “I’m very strong,” he declares simply.

“No fucking shit.” Steve whirls around and looks at Bucky. “That’s what you mean by enhanced?”

“Uhm. I guess. Part of it. I mean, we heal fast, too.” And here’s his shyness coming back. “I can do it too if you want proof.”

Steve starts to say no, but then he thinks back to Steven’s muscles bulging slightly and the very primal reaction of “Jesus that’s hot” he’d had under all the layers of what-the-fuckiness. “Yes, go ahead, proof.”

Bucky nods, joins Steven, and he, too, lifts the coffee table like it weighs nothing and unbends the barbell with an unholy screech of straining metal.

Bucky puts the wonky barbell down.

And then the two mountains of muscles both turn to Steve, twin looks of expectation on their faces.

Listen. Steve has dommed for people, he likes to play. He’s a service top, he’s had his fair share of vanilla partners and legit subs, and he’s seen that look on every sub waiting for praise.

Holy fuck, he’s fucked.

“That was impressive.” He doesn’t have to work hard to infuse his tone with approval, because their feat really was quite remarkable.

They smile at the same time, Steven’s smile a bit lopsided because of one faint white scar running up to the side of his mouth.

Does he dare? Should he?

“Sit down.” Steven and Bucky look at him blankly then down at the floor and sofa. “At the table.”

They trot over and plop down on their seats, no questions asked.

Steve pushes the plate towards them. “Come on, eat.”

Bucky’s eyes light up and he grabs an all-chocolate cookie immediately. Steven is more cautious. He pokes at one glazed cookie and licks his finger, as if checking that the caramelised granulated sugar on the surface of the smooth glaze is edible. He takes a literal crumb of cookie after that. Then a sample — is it a samplet if the sample is extremely small? — of the glaze.

It’s excruciating.

Until he decides, according to some sort of weird internal standard, that the cookie is comestible. Then he wolfs down the poor thing in one bite.

“Another?” Steve suggests.

Steven nods quickly and takes another. Bucky is still nibbling on his own as if it were a gourmet treat. His grey eyes swing from Steven to Steve, examining the scene.

“Steve?”

For all that their expectations of praise had been clear as day, Steve now finds it very difficult to read them. Both Steven and Bucky seem to be able to remain closed-off easily. “Hmm?”

“I want you to keep giving me cookies. And blankets and hugs. More hugs.”

“O-kay?”

“But the Ca-Steven. Could use cookies and blankets and hugs, too. So. Uhm. Do you want to give them or should I be responsible for Steven’s cookies and hugs?”

“Blankets?” Steven pipes up, eyes alight with hope.

Steve steeples his fingers. “Bucky are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Bucky does that thing he does sometimes, like he’s consulting with an inner council and casting votes on whatever the fuck is happening. “It’s the sex thing?” he asks for clarification.

“Sex?” Steven wonders aloud, eyes slightly confused.

Steve smiles at Steven and pushes another cookie towards him, patting his big hand. “Yes, sex. Can be with or without sex, baby, your choice. If there isn’t, then we’ll have to discuss the hows and whens and with whom I can go have sex, though.”

The inner council assembles again, then Bucky nods emphatically. “Okay, then. I’ll be your best guy. Boyfriend, yes. But only if I get to be the little spoon. If you teach me, I could hug you, too. Sex is okay, I like it a lot.”

Fuckitty fuck. Steve would say, “Is this man real” if he hadn’t literally come from another dimension, and since when had Steve started to believe this mad story, anyway?

“Alright. And so, next question you’re asking me… Do I want Steven to be my boyfriend… or like… do I prefer Steven to be yours?”

The inner Bucky-council shit lasts a little longer this time; all the while, Steven is watching, bemused and confused, but mostly still demolishing the pile of cookies slowly but steadily.

“Yes. Who is going to be Steven’s boyfriend?” Bucky asks, earnestly.

Steven swallows a mouthful of cookie. “Can I have naps and sex too?”

Oh my.

“Okay wait, I need to consult with a friend.” He needs his own inner council votation shit.

Steve twists in his seat and gets his phone from his pocket. He brings up Natasha’s number.

_Nat. Is it greedy to have two super beefy subs._

Her answer is immediate.

> _What have you done.  
>  boje moi this is a bad idea Steve_  
> 

_Okay then._

> _STEVE DONT_  
> 

_Too late_

Steve lets his phone clatter to the table and smiles at Bucky and Steven. “This is gonna be great. I have enough blankets and hugs to spare for two.”

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

The thing is, it’s not easy, but nothing’s easy in life, really. Bucky and Steven are both majorly traumatised. Bucky seems to have become an unexpected mob boss for reasons obscure enough that explaining them twice didn’t suffice to make the situation any clearer. Both of them have very conspicuous prosthetics that they hope they won't have to repair because there are no bionic eye shops in this universe.

However, they are getting somewhere, all three of them. Steve goes to his coffee shop, makes latte art, and comes back to his two boyfriends learning to adjust to a normal world. They kept the conspicuously big apartment because sometimes Bucky or Steven need their space. Also because in this capitalistic world, Steve isn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

Therapy, a steady job, and lots of naps and blankets and handfeeding have helped a lot. His two beefy boyfriends have gotten much more eloquent. Happier, still just as simple and goal-oriented as before, genuine, sweet and caring. Just… lighter. The weight they carry around on their shoulders will take forever to disappear, but to Steve’s — and Natasha’s — surprise, this extremely bad idea has turned out… okay. Great even.

“You are thinking of sex,” Natasha whispers in his ear, startling Steve as he’s staring out into space, elbows on the counter.

Steve stands up straight and clears his throat, which he shouldn’t have, because only liars clear their throat before speaking. Still, he denies it with all the poise he can have while wearing a dark blue and soft pink patterned apron. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. Or else you might have noticed that your shift ended ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck!” He looks at the clock, as if Natasha could be wrong, but no, she isn’t, never is, and holy shit, he’s late late late.

Steve dashes to the back, banging the door to the staffroom where Wanda is putting on her own apron.

“Hi, Steve.”

His own answer comes out muffled and garbled as he struggles to get out of his apron and put his big sweater on at the same time, which is impossible, but that’s not the kind of technicality Steve stops at. He’s going to be fucking late. If he gets home after Steven and Bucky come back from the garage, his surprise won’t be so surprising. Ugh.

He chaotically manages to get undressed and dressed and grab his backpack, and as he zooms out the backdoor, he yells, “Bye Wanda!!” behind him.

Shit shit.

Thing is, neither Bucky nor Steven have any kind of frame of reference for relationships. Theirs, a friendship that Steve had surmised early on had been on the brink of something romantic, was long and far gone. They’d forgotten the particulars. Steve doesn’t have to do any kind of emotional heavy-lifting, his boyfriends are more than happy to prove they love each other. But knowing how to prove it is alien to Bucky and Steven, so it kind of falls on Steve to teach them how.

Today marks a year since Bucky presented Steve the equivalent of a two-for-the-price-of-one boyfriend offer, and that’s called an anniversary, and Steve is just as sure as the sky is blue and his boyfriends are hot, that he’s the only one in this threesome who knows what an anniversary is.

Normally, he would arrive at home way earlier than Steven and Bucky, but since they both are suspicious little shits, always doing the rounds and checking for whatever-the-fucks, as if this is a spy thriller novel, Steve had had to get creative. So he needs to go to Sam’s to retrieve the presents he bought, then go home, prepare some raw cookie dough for _after_ , and then he needs to prepare for the whole shebang.

Jesus, he’s going to be so, so late.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Steve is just getting out of the shower when he hears the front door open and close and Steven’s rumbly voice call out, “We’re home!”

Phew, just in time. The presents are on the bed — he really hopes like hell that he chose well and didn’t go too far, because his boys sure do have lots of baggage — Steve is ready, he’s made some cookie dough for aftercare, prepared all the blankets, he’s got lube…

He’s still running through his mental checklist of “is everything ready for our anniversary” when he enters the living room, fresh as a daisy, his well scrubbed face all smiling because his boys are here and they’re always a sight to see.

“Hello, sweethearts.” He saunters over to Steven first because he’s closer, and goes to kiss him. It’s sweet and soft because Steven has the same bottom lip that’s all full and biteable, but with the hard edge of Steven trying to give back as good as he gets — he’s just as combative as Steve is.

The scars on the side of his face have faded some, but they won’t go away. A more healthy life has just made them less prominent, and most importantly, less painful. Now Steve can skim Steven’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, stroke the side of his neck and slide his hand into Steven’s hair, and all the groans and moans he’ll get will be of pleasure and enjoyment.

Steve releases his hold on Steven, pecks his lips one last time when he gives Steve a goofily happy smile, and then turns to Bucky.

Kissing Bucky is so very different. He’s all pliant, his mouth slightly open and Steve always wants to lick into it. He kisses Bucky all gentle and controlling, because Bucky likes to be guided, even for such trivial things as a kiss on the lips. Steve stands on his tiptoes and grabs Bucky’s head, and at the first hint of a moan, of an exhale, Steve bites Bucky’s bottom lip and retreats, leaving his boy all aroused and confused.

“You smell like soap, took a shower at the garage?”

Steven sniggers and elbows Bucky, “Yeah, Bucky had grease up to his elbows, and I smelled like gas fumes, better not to hog the shower home forever.”

Bucky pouts at that, and grumbles something indistinct, surely to rant about work, but Steven kisses the pout off his face.

Steve is so fucking in love with them.

“Okay sweethearts, can you sit down? I need to talk to you.”

Steven ooohs in anticipation and joins Bucky, who had immediately dashed to the couch, eager to hear the news. The good thing about having absolute novices as boyfriends is that “we need to talk” really only means that they should all talk seriously about relationship stuff.

Steve joins them, sitting on the couch while both his boyfriends sit on the floor at his feet. They both immediately tilt their heads for hair-petting which does something to Steve’s wonky little heart.

“Bucky, Steven, I’m sure you know it’s been a year to the day since I came here to try and charm Bucky into being my boyfriend via the help of cookies, and instead I got both of you.”

Bucky hums, it’s nearly a purr, really. Against his trouser leg, he can feel Steven nod, and his big hands slide down to knead at Steve’s foot, half foot massage and half self-soothing move. “I remember,” Steven rumbles. “It was a great day.”

“Sure was, sugar.” Steven’s hair feels so soft and Bucky’s delicate curls are so pleasant to pet and tangle his hand in. “Today’s a milestone, our anniversary. Been a year, and traditionally, it means we get to celebrate this.”

Bucky immediately perks up, but Steven stays put, requiring more petting. Of the two, Bucky has regained most of his impulsivity, whereas Steven tends to be more suspicious, more cautious. He confided once to Steve that he felt like he was responsible for Bucky and it felt harder to let himself slip, to be impulsive. Impulse and feelings meant punishment, and punishment was still pain to him.

Honestly, Steven reacted better to praise and being swaddled in blankets, whereas Bucky liked orders and punishments because “Now I know that all the punishments will end, and when they end, they end in naps and cookies.”

“Will there be cake?” Bucky asks eagerly.

“Even better, baby.” Steve leans down to kiss Bucky on the nose. “I have presents for you both. I’m going to give you a gift each, and then we’ll have sex, and then I’ll give you some hot chocolate and cookie dough I just made.”

“Nice!”

“Wait, did we need to give you gifts too?”

Shit. Steven, always too perceptive.

“Honey, you don’t need to, not this time.”

“But—”

“You didn’t know this was supposed to be a celebration, so since I’m springing it on you, you don’t need to give me presents.” He already knows, as he says this, that Steven, because he is, after all, a Steve like him, isn’t going to let that slide.

“No, you should get a present from us too!”

“You’re already giving me a foot massage, Steven.” He knows this argument is going to fail, and doesn’t miss the loaded look Bucky and Steven share although he has no idea what it means.

“But he’s right?” Bucky interrupts. “We should do something for you.”

Steve chuckles. “Okay, I’m outnumbered, what about I show you your presents and then you can decide what mine’s gonna be?”

They both nod in unison, and for one single moment Steve feels his heart squeeze at the sight of these two big, burly men looking so sweetly at him, settled on the floor because they like to get attention and pets. How did he get so fucking lucky?

Of course, he knows that going to the bedroom to retrieve the presents will give his boys the time to decide and discuss amongst themselves. He can just imagine them, heads bent and sharing a few words, efficient, discarding ideas, tabling some for further consideration. It’s always quite interesting to watch Steven and Bucky talking; it sometimes sounds like two people giving each other shit through mission reports.

Steve takes his time. If they want to give him a surprise, they will. Bucky is always eager to please and love, and Steven is a stubborn man who thinks he still needs to prove he’s got a place here. No matter, Steve will make it his life’s work to get his otherworldly-alter-ego to let go of his feeling of inadequacy one day.

The two boxes lie on the bed, inconspicuous, each of his boyfriends’ names written in a nice, swooping copperplate script in golden ink. The store he bought them at sure knows how to make customers feel special.

Feeling like he’s dithered long enough, Steve piles the boxes together and walks out of the bedroom to the living room.

They’ve moved. Steven is hugging Bucky from behind, facing the big windows, obviously just finished talking. It’s a sight for sore eyes, really, Steven’s big arms around Bucky’s waist, his musculature outlined by one of those terribly tight t-shirts he keeps wearing, tiny waist and powerful legs, his head angled to look at Bucky’s profile. There’s the hint of bright blue from his bionic eye peeking out from under his eyelashes. Bucky has tilted his head like a lizard sunning itself, arms resting on Steven’s, compact muscles and curls brushing his cheeks and ears. His eyes are closed and he looks like he might either be resting or in “standby mode” — a trance-like state his boys had tried to describe to him once. He looks gorgeous, really.

Gonna look even more so with his present.

Steve puts both boxes on the dining table. “Come on now, boys.” His voice comes out deeper and more authoritative, his dom tone, as Sam would say, or handler-speak, as Steven and Bucky dubbed it.

Bucky, ever the curious one, detaches himself from Steven first. When they’re standing at attention, a wall of muscles in front of Steve, he smiles like a shark. “I’m going to need to review you for inspection. Strip from the waist up.”

It never fails to make Steve shiver, the way Steven and Bucky slide so easily into obedience. They’ve had long talks about it, Steve fearing his proclivities might send their healing minds back to worse days, but they had taken it slowly. They were cautious, and mostly they’d set precise boundaries and very clear limits as to the orders and the compliance that would be expected.

Still.

Steve bites his bottom lip when he sees the expanse of their chests, just ample swaths of skin he’s yearning to explore with his hands, mouth and tongue.

“Ready?” he asks, as he always does when they start something that goes even slightly beyond vanilla.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Music to Steve’s ears. “I have noticed that you both have made great progress, and I’ve decided that this is grounds for a reward.”

Steven tilts his head like a quizzical puppy while Bucky bounces on the balls of his feet. It had taken months before he managed to break them out of their perfect parade rests, so them showing impatience is delightful.

Steve makes a show of drumming his long fingers on the boxes, hemming and hawing so that his precious boys can feel their mounting curiosity. He likes to gauge impatience from Steven’s restlessness — Bucky usually starts fidgeting earlier, but never enough to tell Steve that his agitation is growing. Steven, on the other hand…

“Bucky, take a step, and kneel.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve’s baby says so earnestly.

Jesus, but Steve loves having men who can bench press him a thousand times fall to their knees at his beck and call.

“You listen so well, answer to me so quickly, and I thought you deserved something to show you how beautiful that is to me.” Steve shows the box to Bucky and then opens it. “Go on, take it out.”

Bucky peers up at him, always checking that he’s allowed, and then brushes his flesh-and-blood fingers across the crinkly silk-thin paper, pushing open the packaging to reveal the collar Steve had ordered specially for him. Its leather is a soft brown embossed in gold with a nice big ring on the front that Steve hopes one day he’ll get to attach something to, star-shaped rivets, and a golden buckle, too. It isn’t utilitarian, but not over-the-top, either. It’s a gamble because this is the first gear he’s bought for his boys, and even though they had discussed it in advance, there’s always the possibility that reality… could disappoint.

However, it doesn’t seem very likely, as Bucky strokes the leather, mesmerised.

“Don’t you think it’s high time that I took your neck’s virginity, hmm?” Steve asks, taking the collar and discarding the box. Bucky raises his eyes to Steve, still transfixed, and watches as Steve bends to put the collar on him. “Now lift your hair up, baby.”

Bucky does so, his biceps bunching nicely as he raises his arms to shift his hair up and away from the nape of his neck. Steve unclasps the collar and settles it around Bucky’s neck, letting his fingers brush against warm skin just so that he can feel the shiver running through his boy when he cinches the clasp of the collar.

“Steve…” Bucky whispers reverently.

“Hmm?”

“Sir.”

Steve smiles, kisses Bucky’s forehead. “Obedient boys get rewarded, sweet thing.”

“I was good?”

“The best,” Steve says as he runs his index finger all along the edge of the collar, partly to make sure it’s not too tight, not too loose, and partly just to feel Bucky’s skin against the leather. “Always. Now, Steven.”

“Sir.”

Just as expected, when Steve shifts his attention to Steven, he can see that his superhuman alter ego is positively vibrating with suppressed impatience. Perfect.

“You can take a step and kneel, too.”

He really doesn’t want to make Steven wait any longer, frustration only works in small doses with him, after all, so Steve doesn’t waste any more time and just gets the box to show it to Steven.

Now that he knows the present is there, Steven suddenly stops fidgeting so much and actually peers at the box with caution. He looks up at Steve. “Can I, sir?”

“Go ahead, open it, honey.” Steven goes to grab the box and Steve slaps his hand away. “Nuh-uh, I said open it, don’t take it.”

Steven makes a face but reigns in his enthusiasm and opens the box to take out the present inside. It’s obvious that he had thought it would be something the same size as Bucky’s, but revises his opinion and uses his left hand to spread out the harness and look at it from all angles once it’s finally outside of the box.

This too, was a gamble. Hit or miss. “Sir, I… How?” Steven asks, choked up, his eyes shifting all over the padded leather, the silver buckles and straps, black with royal blue padding. It’s a hit, then. “Harness?”

“You’re so eager and beautiful, honey, I just couldn’t resist finding something to grab onto and that would showcase that big chest of yours, hm?” Steve hooks a finger through one of the buckles. “Now, wanna show your handler how incredible you look in that thing?”

They would have made quick work of it, really, if Steven hadn’t been so emotional over the harness and Steve not so hot and bothered that he kept running his hands all over Steven’s chest, pinching nipples and squeezing his pecs while his big boy was trying desperately to put on all the straps in the right order.

“Come on now, honey, you having problems with your present?” Steve asks, a bit playful, a bit mean, Steven’s left nipple clamped between two of his fingers.

“No. No, sir, I— Ah!” Steven struggles with one of the thin straps that’s supposed to run across the top of his chest. It’s tangled with the big star-shaped buckle in the middle, and oh, how easy it is to play him like a fiddle.

His sensitive spots are, after all, a well-charted map for Steve, since they are all the same as his.

“Hmf… baby, you should help him, poor thing…” Steve stops pinching Steven’s nipple, and grazes the abused flesh delicately with the tip of his finger. “He looks in over his head with this contraption, huh, honey?”

Steven looks back at Steve, a little betrayed, a little happy, until Bucky knee walks over and starts helping. But he’s helping too well when Steve would rather draw it out, his baby is too efficient, getting the straps that are supposed to crisscross round the upper part of Steve’s abdomen untangled.

“Nuh-uh. Bucky, hands,” Steve tuts, “show him off.”

“Sorry, sir,” he apologises, immediately putting his hands higher, pushing slightly under Steve’s pecs to make them much more prominent. “Like this, sir?”

“Yeah, show me Steven’s tits,” Steve muses. At Steven’s whine of frustration — he’s struggling with the smallest star-shaped buckles, they are tricky to tighten — Steve tuts again and places his thumb on Steven’s bottom lip. “Shhh, honey, be grateful.”

“Uhm, St— handler?” It’s less the name that catches his notice than the hesitant tone in which Bucky asks for his attention. “Handler, sir, we have a gift for you, too. Gratitude for being so magnanimous and fair.”

“Oh, really.” Calling him handler and having a gift. So they really talked this through while he was preparing everything, made real plans…

Bucky straightened his spine as if giving a report, his voice hard but passionate. “Sir, we have been training in our spare time,” _Training? Oh wow, what could this entail?_ Bucky is still fondling Steven almost absent-mindedly, and that alone would distract Steve if Bucky hadn’t added, “We’ve trained a lot so that Steven could take your cock, sir.”

It takes all of Steve’s self-restraint not to groan and grab at his crotch; he only bites his top lip and puts his hand in Steven’s hair, pulling a little. “Is that right, honey? You trained?”

“Yes, sir.” He finally gets the last buckle tightened and relaxes his shoulders, lets his arms hang, looking up at Steve. “We wanted you to have me in the middle, for once.”

What a beauty he is. A gem.

“You boys put a crimp in my plan in the best of ways,” Steve huffs with a smile. He kisses both of them on the forehead and then has a thought, a thought that makes his cock twitch in his pants. “All of that just so I can spitroast you, hmm?”

They don’t answer, but the way Steven licks and bites his lips and Bucky’s hands twitch on Steven’s chest is answer enough.

Steve could get used to his boys blowing his plans to hell with their eagerness.

“Great, I see we are in agreement on the mission, hmm?” he enthuses, already looking forward to it. “Get up.” They react immediately to his voice taking that hard “handler” edge. “Bedroom, now.”

Both of them scramble to the bedroom, quick on their feet. Fucking hell, he’d all but forgotten about trying to have Steven take dick. His boy had been ass shy from the get go and Steve knew when not to push. Looks like he’d misjudged the situation — or maybe he’d just needed the prodding of a man he’d known forever, poking at his curiosity until he’d gotten too curious to let it go.

Steve walks to the bedroom much more sedately. He wants to let his boys stew a bit, get riled up. When he gets there, they are both standing at parade rest beside the bed, naked chests on display, Bucky’s neck satisfyingly encased in leather, they both look incredible. This time, Steve doesn’t try to resist and squeezes his dick through his pants.

“Strip down and get on the bed. On your knees again.” He, too, takes his shirt off first, and when it’s off, he takes some time to admire the impressive physiques of Bucky and Steven, buff, muscular, tall, broad, scarred and marked, so fucking gorgeous and powerful. “I’m so proud of you both, you know that, hmm?” Steve walks over to the bed, puts a finger under each of his boys’ chins, “I’m very proud that you want to try new things. That’s very brave and very inquisitive of you. You deserve all your rewards and so many more.”

“Sir…” Bucky sighs low.

“Now, your mission here is simple. Bucky, you will keep Steven occupied while I prepare him. Mouth, no hands. Service him with all your skills but no coming, Steven, understood?”

Steven nods, chin still held high by Steve’s finger. “No coming, handler.”

“Good. Then I’ll fuck you while you blow Bucky, how’s that for today’s mission? Remember: no coming until I say so, both of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir.” Bucky whines, eyes wide and pupils blown already.

“Shhh, baby, you have your orders, go on, you may start servicing our boy here, I need to prepare.” Steve takes a step back and smirks when Bucky pounces on Steven, getting his mouth on Steven’s already flushed and erect cock. Steve only spares one last glance toward the bed, just to check that Bucky isn’t using his hands, and take a peek at Bucky’s own dick, bobbing with each of his movements, before he makes quick work of his own pants and grabs the lube in record time.

By the time Steve gets on the bed, Bucky is nosing at the base of Steven’s dick, teasing him with kitten licks and open-mouthed kisses. Steve positions himself right behind Steven and spends some time arranging him, just so he can rut on Steven if he wants, finger him easily, maybe even peer over his shoulder to look at Bucky. Because Steve is so much smaller, placing himself is an art.

He pours a liberal amount of lube onto his right hand, discards the bottle, and, holding onto Steven by the harness strap running over his shoulder, he slides the first finger down to Steven’s crack.

The first lewd sounds of sucking make Steve smile, make him hot, thinking of all those times he’s had Bucky sucking on his own dick. Steven chokes on a sigh and Steve chooses that moment to push his finger in, to push, push and push until he’s three knuckles deep in that oh-so-tight ass.

“Shhh,” Steve kisses Steven’s meaty shoulder in reassurance. “I know it’s all new, maybe a bit daunting, even—” Steve pauses in the middle of his sentence just to listen to Bucky moaning and to Steven’s sharp gasp when Steve crooks his finger before starting to pumping it in and out. “—and you know you can’t disobey direct orders, of course, but—” Steve pulls the first finger almost completely out, until he can line up a second finger, here and then he pushes. Pushes until he slides all in and Christ almighty fuck, he just can’t wait to be _in there_. “—anytime you feel the mission’s going south, you know what you say, right, honey?”

Steve has to crane his neck slightly in order to see Steven’s expression and pump his fingers in at the same time, but it’s worth the stretch to see Steven’s little frown of concentration, his cherry-red bottom lip all bitten up from which falls, “I say _abort_ , sir, I, oh!”. The sight is worthy of a renaissance painting.

Steve bites on Steven’s thick meaty muscle between his shoulder and neck, meaty muscle under his teeth, and lets his hand travel to one of the harness’s straps. By the time he’s slipped in a third finger, his hips are rutting against Steven’s backside at the same tempo as his fingers pumping in and out.

Steve doesn’t tease Steven too much, he knows his own body and thus knows how to play Steven like a fiddle. He knows he doesn’t like his prostate grazed, he likes a good pounding or nothing, he likes his rim to be played with. He does just what he himself would want with Steven, gets his fingers right at the edge, stretches the rim until he hears a gasp, then pushes in again. He’s holding onto Steven by the harness, still biting, when Steve jerks up with a whine, mouth open and panting and eyes shut. Steve knows that look, would do it himself. Tugging hard on the harness he barks out a sharp, “Look at him.”

Steve shakes in his grip, thighs trembling. Bucky must be presenting quite the tableau under him judging by the gasps he's trying to contain.

Steve can’t see it, but he can absolutely imagine what’s happening down there. The wet sounds of his lubed-up fingers sliding in and out are accompanied by the noise of Bucky sucking Steven. “Baby, lick him further down, go on. Steven what do you see?”

“He-he, has, his mouth on my sack, he’s sucking, red lips.” Steven swallows audibly, and moans when Steve pushes his fingers in as deep as he can. “I-I, he’s got my dick on his cheek, his tongue is— Bucky-ha!”

“Hmm, sounds like you should be ready for me to fuck you, huh?”

“Yes! Yes, I am!” Steven calls out to no one in particular, eyes downcast and tracking Bucky’s movements. “Sir, please.”

Steve smirks, and delights in sliding his whole body over Steven’s back to get to his ear, leaving a track of precome on Steven’s side. “Then get on your hands and knees, honey.”

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Bucky sits back as Steve coaxes Steven into position, marvelling both at the constantly delightful fact that he has two — TWO — Steves for himself and at how well his and Steven’s efforts are being rewarded.

And it had taken effort. Steven just didn’t like to let go of the control entirely, but he’d wanted to switch so badly, too curious about how it made Bucky feel to let it go. It had filled a lot of their downtime lately, because they needed to work at it when Steve wasn’t home. It had been fun — sex always was — and interesting, too, because they got used to using their bodies a certain way, and getting Steven to switch made them rethink a lot of stuff.

There had also been that time a week ago where Bucky had tried to roleplay being their Steve on a night that Steve was out with friends. Bucky hadn’t made a very convincing Steve. He’d tried giving out orders, make things sexy, but it had just sounded so ridiculous that Steven had snorted, then Bucky had sniggered, and they had ended up laughing themselves silly. Steven’s laugh is so, so rare, and Bucky’s too, but they had been overcome with mirth, cackling till they were breathless with it, and had ended up doing absolutely nothing that night aside from rough-housing like teenagers.

“Bucky.” The voice of Steve — his handler — shakes him out of his reminiscing. “Steven is waiting for you.”

Bucky gasps and pushes up to his knees so that his dick is right in front of Steven. Steven looks up at him from under his eyelashes, with his eyes oh so blue.

“Go on, feed it to him now,” Steve orders.

Bucky and Steven both moan as he slowly pushes his way into Steven’s mouth. “Hnn… I—” he stops talking and breathing altogether. Steven’s mouth is so hot, so pliant…

Bucky seeks Steve’s gaze, his approval — was this what he had to do? — and realises how much of a perfect vantage point he has. It’s not only Steven sucking him that he can see from where he kneels, it’s also how Steve’s dick is poised to enter Steven’s ass, lube all shiny around it. Bucky is going to have a front row seat to everything that’s gonna happen, and his hands shake where they gently rest on Steven’s shoulders. It’s overwhelming.

Steve’s hands grip the harness tightly, and Bucky watches, transfixed, as Steve starts pushing, murmuring vague soothing words to Steven.

It’s—

He could watch Steven get fucked forever, but Bucky suddenly gets distracted from the spectacle by Steven, who suddenly shoves his face forward into Bucky’s crotch and licks at his balls, moaning loudly.

“Ah! Ste—” Bucky’s hands go to Steven’s hair, grasping the short strands to have something to hold onto. “Steven!”

“Fuck you’re so tight,” Steve growls.

Bucky dazedly shifts his attention again to Steven’s ass and can see his asshole getting slowly stretched as Steve relentlessly bottoms out at a glacial pace, not stopping for love or money.

It’s the worst, sweetest torture to feel Steven’s tongue lapping at his dick and wanting to look down, but also hearing the sudden slap of flesh against flesh and wanting to watch rapturously as Steve fucks Steven for the first time.

“Fuck, honey, you’re so hot…” Steve’s hands are all tight on the harness, Bucky’s gaze caught there, and the sinewy muscles in his thin forearms are all tense…

Bucky doesn’t know how to decide where to look — Steven suckles on the tip of his cock and all the air he has left is sucked out of him, it’s so good — there’s a distressed whine building in his throat because he doesn’t know and can’t choose and how—

“Bucky!” Bucky snaps his head up at Steve’s voice, the order in it. “You look at him sucking you, baby.” Bucky could weep in relief at not having to choose. “Look at his face and how me fucking him is pushing him against you, alright?”

“Yes, Ye-ah! Sir!” Bucky has to take a second to blink at the ceiling, clear his head. The collar around his throat feels like a brand, hot and heavy.

“Come on, Bucky, lovely.” The voice of his handler is a bit choppy with how he’s fucking into Steven. Bucky nods jerkily and looks down. “Very good, Bucky, you keep him in your sights.”

He does, boy he does, and it’s so good. Steven is sucking Bucky, all focused and blissed out, his face relaxed in what would be a smile if his mouth wasn’t already stretched around Bucky’s shaft. Bucky only has to take it, Steven’s already swaying to the rhythm of Steve’s thrusts.

“St-Steven, oh fuck…” Bucky tightens his hands in Steven’s hair, starts to fuck his mouth in time with Steve fucking Steven’s ass.

There’s drool dripping down his balls, and a well timed thrust ends up shoving his dick so deep it bumps against the back of Steven’s throat. Steven chokes, tears welling up in his eyes, so Bucky pats his hair and shushes him. “Yeah, I know, it’s a lot, it’s, fuck, ah!” Bucky grits his teeth and lets up the pressure just to push again into Steven’s throat, eliciting another choking sound from Steven, who looks up at him all lost and teary eyed.

“Come on, take it, honey,” Steve orders. “Suck him all the way down and swallow, you’ll see.” Steve’s voice is strained with effort. “Go on, honey.”

Shit, Bucky isn’t the one who usually gets blowjobs, and during training they never went that far with Steven, but for fuck’s sake, it’s so… It’s so fucking good. Steven’s mouth and his collar are like two molten-hot points of lava on his body. He closes his eyes briefly and groans when Steven finally relaxes and he can feel his throat work around his cockhead.

A sharp, “Bucky, eyes,” from Steve calls him back to attention, followed by “Steven,” said in the same tone. Steven’s answering moan reverberates through Bucky’s entire being, before he goes back to suckling the head of Bucky’s cock. This can’t go on much longer, or he’ll come soon. “Steven, remember you don’t get to come before I say so, and no coming before Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t have time to panic about Steven’s pleasure hinging on his own before Steve hooks a finger in his collar and pulls him sharply towards him, rudely dislodging his dick from Steven’s mouth.

The position is uncomfortable — he’s leaning over Steven’s back, his hips and crotch pushing against Steven’s face, who’s mouthing and lapping at his now so sensitive balls. The collar’s edge is hard against his neck, but he’s also never felt quite so much like his handler’s best soldier, the best Bucky, the best for Steve. Steve’s eyes are boring into his from behind his glasses, a hard blue so intense that Bucky has to look to the side quickly, fixing his eyes on Steve’s small earring so that he doesn’t burn with the cold fire of Steve’s eyes.

“Oh, baby, I see, you getting close, huh?” Bucky whines and sobs because Steven is doing _something_ to him, he is, and Bucky starts to lose his words. “Yeah you are, huh, baby, you’re so obedient.” Steve thrusts and Bucky can feel it everywhere, in Steven’s body swaying into him, in his collar pulling him forward. “The best boy a handler could want, that you are, hmm…”

“I am, I am, Sir I—” Steven seems to have worked out a way to contort himself in order to continue sucking Bucky down without getting smothered in the process, and Bucky goes a little bit out of his mind.

“Yes, you are. So I’m gonna tell you the plan, so you can—” He thrusts sharply, Steven chokes again, and Bucky isn’t sure he can hold on much longer. “—carry it out, huh? First, you’re going to come.”

Bucky sobs out a whiny, “Yes”.

“And then you’re gonna help me with Steven, suck his dick, alright? Get your nose in there, see me fuck him from up close, right?” Bucky tries to nod, but can’t really because of his position, Steve gives a sharp tug at his collar. “Answer me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll get to see the results of your handiwork that way, hmm?”

Steve releases Bucky’s collar, and Bucky can now straighten again and look down at Steven’s face, at the way Bucky’s dick, heavy and hard, is halfway into his hot mouth, red lips all spit-wet circling his shaft and a long trail of precome streaking his cheek from when he must have been taking Bucky’s balls in his mouth.

Steve’s thrusts have slowed slightly, but not so much that Bucky can’t feel how Steven’s whole body is rocking, Bucky’s cock coming and going between Steven’s lips.

Bucky likes to swallow, but Steven doesn’t, not really. His eyes are watery and pleasure filled. Bucky strokes his hand through his hair and only says absent-mindedly, “I’m gonna… Steven. I’m—”

Steven blinks blearily and opens his mouth wide, letting Bucky’s cock slip out. Bucky’s already so close that the sudden cold brush of air on his wet dick only serves to bring him ever closer.

Steven must be pretty out of it, even worse than Bucky, because he looks surprised when Steve pulls on his harness sharply to bring him up. Bucky understands what Steve is trying to do and helps by pushing on Steven’s shoulder until he’s flush against Steve. Steve is still fucking Steven from behind, and he uses the harness to showcase his chest.

Steve had been so right, so right in his choice, the harness just frames Steven’s tits so perfectly that Bucky could weep. Instead, he knee walks to Steven, aligns their cocks, and jacks them off to the soft sounds of Steve’s grunts and huffs, the sharp slap of Steve’s thighs against Steven’s.

“Please.” Steven murmurs and closes his eyes. And it’s that, it’s that soft word in Steven’s deep, broken voice and his red red lips and his big body rocking with Steve’s thrusts, it’s all of that together that sends Bucky over the edge. He kisses Steven filthily, just tongue and spit and hot ragged breaths as he comes all over Steven’s dick, painting his crotch all down to his balls with spurts of come.

✧✼❀✿❀✼✧

Steven thinks, for all that he’s able to think at this stage of the proceedings, that it’s just going to be Steve and him from now on, and Bucky will watch.

It happens often, especially if Steve thinks that one of them is gonna get overwhelmed — at least that’s what he thinks while the rest of him is at sea in a storm of sensation, unmoored.

However, no sooner does Bucky come all over him than Steve pulls again on his harness, keeping Steven tight against his thin body, his sweaty skin. Steven moans.

“Bucky, get to it.” Bucky lies down on his back and slides under Steven.

_What?_

Steven doesn’t have time to piece anything together because this isn’t like what they usually do, and he’s not all there. Everything is just… so much. So much more than the kind of sex where he controls at least part of what’s happening. Sure, he isn’t like Steve, per se, but he does like to have some measure of control. One day he had asked Steve how it was that he could relinquish some of his control to Steven, sometimes, and Steve had said that to be a good dom, he’d learned how to sub, too.

Right now, Steven thinks he finally understands. He cared for Bucky in those strange, unknowing ways, way back when everything was dark and freezing cold, and now he feels hot all over, no piece of him left unlit. He’s being taken care of.

He’s just Steve’s perfect doll, he’s _honey_.

He feels like he’s outside of his own body. Steve still has a strong hold on his harness, it pushes his chest forward, and he can feel Steve’s hot breath on his neck, a brief reverent whisper, “beautiful,” and Bucky’s tongue licking down his shaft, down—

“Ah! Ah Buck… wha—” It’s too much, everything is too much. “Steve!” he cries out.

Then Bucky puts Steven’s balls in his mouth, so he cries out again, so grateful to be able to vocalise his overwhelm.

Steve pushes him forward brusquely, a sharp slap of his hand in the middle of Steven’s back that sends him back on all fours.

All Steven can feel is his dick being sucked, his balls being laved with an eager tongue and his ass being pounded by Steve, Steve’s hands tangled back in the straps of his leather harness — _the harness, like, like the one, like_ —, his whole body is being rocked like a ragdoll, he’s coming unglued. Steve is using the fucking harness as a way to pull him back everytime he pushes his dick in, hitting his prostate roughly, without mercy, it’s making him go crazy with pleasure.

“You only come when I say so, huh,” Steve’s rumbly voice huffs out above him. Steven keens, unable to say anything. “Yeah, you are the prettiest, you know? Next time I’m fucking you face to face, but I don’t want to overwhelm you right now, one mission at a time, right, honey?”

And Steven is okay with that; it’s very intense staring people in the face, he can’t do everything, thank fuck Steve is so good with them and so caring and he knows that Steven wouldn’t be able to handle all that at the same time because this is already so much, he feels like he’s unraveling and bursting at the seams.

And he said he was so pretty?

He’s not sure he understands anything anymore. Bucky lets Steven’s balls out of his mouth and goes back to licking at the base of his dick, mouthing up until he gets his lips around the head. It’s torture, excellent torture, Steve told him he’s pretty, he’s going insane, he’s sure.

Steven can’t really pinpoint the moment the fucking gets more forceful, harder and harsher, but it’s fantastic, and pushes garbled cries and soft sounds out of his mouth. His mind is full of cotton and pleasure.

Like everything right now, he only notices late that he’s close to coming. The electricity pooling at the base of his spine, the heady feeling of being on the precipice of orgasm, he doesn’t notice until he’s so very close that anything could send him over the edge.

He needs to tell Steve! He needs to— “Handler!” a thrust, jabbing him in his prostate, cuts his breath for a second. “Handler, I’m close, I’m— Please, sir,” he pleads, voice broken.

One of Steve’s hands goes to the root of Steven’s dick, squeezes briefly next to Bucky’s lips, and that manages to bring Steven back from the brink, just a step back.

“Just a second more, prettiest,” Steve orders, to the music of Bucky’s slurping on Steven’s cock, “one second more.” Each word is punctuated with a thrust that sends him forward and a moan from Bucky underneath him. He can see Bucky’s dick, half hard again, right in front of him, and he feels so hungry despite being filled from all sides.

“Yes, sir! Please! Please can I?”

Steve shakes his harness, and it rattles Steven’s brain. “Please what?”

“Me, Bucky. Suck.”

Steve’s voice sounds like he’s been running a marathon, now, but he still finds the breath to tell Steven, “Put it in your mouth, yeah, go ahead. Just hold it on your tongue, honey.”

Steven could cry he’s so glad as he gets his mouth back on Bucky’s cock again. The thrusting is enough to turn it into a strange blowjob without him trying. Bucky moans and whines, and in that moment, he feels suspended in time. And that’s when Steve blessedly says, “You can come, honey, you can.”

It’s mind-blowing.

Steven comes, and it feels like some screws must come loose somewhere. He very literally whites out, disconnects from what’s happening around him, only gets the vague sense that he gasps and cries out so loud it could be a yell. He’s never felt this much, this intensely.

He comes to, vaguely, when he feels Steve pull out. There’s the sensation of come seeping out, just a bit, but then a thumb is running after the wet drops of come and pushing them back inside. Steven can only moan and take it. Bucky is still under him, and Steven is half lying on his big body, cheek smushed against Bucky’s abs. He’s just lying there and taking it and that’s…

That’s fine.

He sighs.

Bucky is finishing himself for the second time under Steven, right hand stripping his dick quickly, holding Steven’s dick in his mouth and not doing anything else. Steven doesn’t orgasm a second time when Bucky does, but he still feels like he’s floating weightless and is part of Bucky’s pleasure.

It’s great. He sighs again, blissed out of his mind.

Time slips by him and he doesn’t really care, for once.

He gets the hazy sense that Steve moves them, arranges them on the bed. He feels the usual comforting weight of a blanket being pulled over them both, and Steve’s deep voice, like a physical sensation. “Come on, you both, cuddle time, I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”

Back in… ?

He has a hard time focusing, but Bucky hums and pulls him into his arms. The comfort of those mismatched arms wrapped tight around him, unyielding metal and strong muscle and flesh, makes him hum contentedly in return.

Steven is glad that Bucky is there so that he doesn’t feel the loss of Steve too much. He clings to Bucky and Bucky clings to him as they both come down from their high.

Steve comes back with the post-mission set. It’s like a box. Or a tray. It’s not important. Its existence is the only important thing. This means they are going to wind down: mission accomplished.

He looks at Steve’s long fingers, the palms all red from having held his harness so tight. They still expertly and swiftly prepare a wet washcloth to clean both Steven and Bucky. They stare at Steve languidly, holding onto each other still. There are drinks on the bedside table and a bowl, Steven notices distractedly.

“Hey, honey?”

Steven has to take a moment to understand how his mouth works again. “Steve?”

“Yeah, honey?” Steve smiles wide, he’s accomplished the mission, too, and that always makes him look feverishly proud. “Gonna let me wash you?”

At Steven’s nod, Steve kisses the top of his head. He cleans him up thoroughly while murmuring soft words, saying that Steven is the prettiest. He even wipes Steven’s face — he’s drooled a lot on Bucky — and loosens the harness until it’s easy to slip it off Steven’s huge shoulders. “There you go, pretty, there you go.” He gets another kiss on the forehead, blushes at the praise. “Sit up?”

Steven nods, sits up with only minimal struggle and gets a mug of hot chocolate for his efforts.

He sips it slowly, watching calmly as Steve does the same for Bucky. Cleaning his face, his body, telling him he’s the best, so well-behaved.

Everything is still so slow and sweet, like molasses. He feels mostly back, but still dazed and hazy, soft around the edges, fuzzily happy. It’s strange, really. Maybe soon, thanks to all those moments bathed in the golden glow of happiness, even his perfect memory might fail to remember the dark and lonely days when he was alone to care for Bucky and didn’t know how.

He shares a look with Bucky, as Steve fetches the other hot chocolate. They don’t need telepathy to know that they are both thinking the same thing. A year with no chair, no ice, no pain. They both smile.

“Okay, scoot, sweethearts.” Steve slides between them both holding his own mug of chocolate carefully and a bowl of—

“Oh, cookie dough?”

“Yup!” Steve says brightly. He grabs the spoon stuck in the dough. “Who first?”

“Bucky,” Steven declares decisively.

The look Steve gives him then is… hard to parse. There’s a lot in there. He could look sad, but he isn’t. He still looks all proud and flushed, happy. It’s a strange look.

“Steve?” he asks hesitantly while Bucky looks on pensively.

“Nothing, honey. Just…” He chuffs a weird little laugh before pecking Steven on the lips. “You’re a lot like me. I love it when you’re all pliant, but I shouldn’t expect you to stay so.” Steven can’t get a word in edgewise before he’s pecked on the lips again. “Thank you for what you just gave me.”

And that’s that. Steve turns to Bucky and feeds him the first spoonful of raw, sugary dough. Then it’s Steven’s turn, and he takes the provided spoon gratefully, knowing that he needs the sugar just as much as the comfort.

Steve feeds them in turns and still gives them praise and kisses, all chaste and sweet on their cheeks, their foreheads, their necks, their lips. Bucky is elated, Steven is so happy.

He’d thought, at the beginning of all this, when Bucky had brought him here to this strange _normal_ world, that once Bucky realised that he had a new handler, a new Steve, a Steve that was whole and complete, Steven would become obsolete.

But now he thinks that… maybe not.

Maybe he’s right where he should be, needs to be.

Deserves to be.

“Another?” Steve asks with a new spoonful of cookie dough.

“Nap,” he says instead. But he thinks he wants cuddles, and he wants Steve to have cookie dough, too.

“Okay, honey, let’s—”

“No wait.” He bites his lip; his ideas are all jumbled, still, and the post-sex confusion hasn’t completely left his brain. “You should eat some.”

Steve chuckles, and Steven sees Bucky watching him from Steve’s other side, with his dopey smile and tangled hair, all wrapped around their skinny boyfriend. “You wanna feed it to me?” Steve asks.

Steven nods, takes the spoon from Steve and, painstakingly mimicking Steve’s movements from minutes ago, feeds the bit of dough to him. Steve smiles mischievously, his eyes crinkling behind his smudged glasses — they always get so dirty during sex, but Steve wants to watch everything and won’t take them off. “Thank you, honey,” he hums, licking his lips.

“Now, Bucky,” Steven declares decisively.

Again, he mimics Steve and feeds a spoonful of cookie dough to Bucky, who makes a show of climbing all over Steve’s body to get to the spoon and makes yummy sounds, squirming on Steve.

“Oof, you’re heavy, baby!”

“And you’re comfy.”

Steven sniggers and eats a spoonful of dough — it’s his turn — sitting tranquilly beside Steve. Steve struggles under Bucky’s weight until he decides to take matters in his own hands and starts tickling his bigger boyfriend. Bucky yelps, jumps back, and starts to retaliate, but Steve is small and wiggly.

Steven smiles, he smiles beatifically, happy to have taken care of his boyfriends exactly how he should do it — he’s learned from the best. He’s all zen until the tickle fight spreads to him.

And as they gang up on him, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s really right where he’s supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I absolutely want to write a fuckton of sequels/prequels/whatever-the-fuck-quels of this whole thing. Other universes? Bucky being an accidental mob boss? Steven's baby steps? First day at the garage? Hello my name is Steven Grant Rogers and I'm Steven Grant Rogers boyfriend, haha?
> 
> Jeez
> 
> 😍
> 
> (Wanna know what happens next, for _all_ the Steves and Buckys? This is now, officially, a series! 😉)


End file.
